Father of the Bride
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: It's Mary and Matthew's wedding day! But amidst the joy and excitement surrounding one lovely bride, another bride can't help but wonder what it may have been like, if her father had looked at her with the same awe on her wedding day, as he looks now upon her older sister? Emotion, heartbreak, and romantic fluff. (Based on pre-series 3 speculations; now *happily* AU!)
1. Chapter 1

_So I too have now jumped on the S3 speculation band-wagon, and offer a story of my own, with a *few* spoilers (as shown in the S3 ITV trailer). _

_This story, for the most part, was a form of "therapy" for me. While I doubt the events of the show will appear as they do in this story, I am VERY hopeful that there is some kind of confrontation will take place between Robert and Sybil about the fact that while she is there to celebrate her sister's marriage...he was not present at hers. I really like the character of Robert, but I found his disregard for attending his youngest daughter's wedding hard to forgive, and I really hope it's brought up in some way in Season 3. _

_I hope you enjoy this emotional, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes fluffy story. Also, I'm considering writing a second, follow-up chapter to it, so please let me know if that is something you would like to see! THANK FOR READING!_

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**"Father of the Bride"**

_**By The Yankee Countess**_

They were late.

He was supposed to be at the church twenty minutes ago, standing by as his future brother-in-law's best man, an honor he still hadn't digested. He concluded it had to be because of tradition; since he was married to one of the bride's sisters, he was the natural choice for such a position. Still, when Matthew asked him, Tom was utterly speechless. When he had found his voice, he said "yes" without delay; _finally_…someone other than his wife in the Crawley family who seemed to accept him!

He wanted to make Matthew proud; he felt a strange camaraderie with him, possibly because they both had fallen in love with Crawley women. He also wanted to prove to his in-laws, especially his stubborn father-in-law, that he could do this right; that he could stand beside the man whom he knew his father-in-law truly approved of, and show him and the world that he, Tom Branson, was a man of value and importance.

A selfish, self-serving thought? Yes, he was ashamed to admit—but after some of the things he had to put up with since their arrival back at Downton, he needed some "healing" for his ego.

But where was Sybil? The wedding guests were gathering, and Mary and her parents had gone on ahead. Matthew and his mother would be coming from Crawley House in the village, and Edith had fallen back, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sir Anthony Strallen, before joining the others. So where was his wife in all this?

Since he refused to be waited on by anyone (and because he also assumed they wouldn't want to do anything for him) Tom knew it was up to him to make sure his suit was pressed and ready for the celebration. So as he came up from the Servant's Hall after finishing his task, he watched his sister-in-law, who indeed looked very lovely and was smiling radiantly at her father who walked beside her, pass with the rest of them out the front door…minus her youngest sister.

Where was she? He quickly went to their room, hoping everything was alright; was the pregnancy making it difficult for her to dress? Perhaps he should have stayed? "Sybil?" He knocked on the door before entering…and found the room empty. Was she in the lavatory? Oh God, he prayed she wasn't feeling sick. He remembered how she awoke in the middle of the night, groaning about cramps, and he tried to soothe her by massaging her back and her belly. But no, she wasn't there, either.

_I'm going to be late—no, _we're_ going to be late, and even though they should have waited for her, somehow _I'll_ be the one to take all the blame, because I'm everyone's favorite scapegoat!_

He groaned and tried to keep his mind and emotions calm; the last thing he wanted to do was take his frustrations out on his wife when he found her. "Sybil?" He walked down the hallway, still feeling like a rat lost in a maze even though he had been there for over a week. "Sybil?" _Please, love, just answer me? Where are you?_ "Sybil?"

Then he heard it.

Sniffling?

He stopped where he was, and turned his ears to the sound, trying to see if he could tell what direction it was coming from…and behind which closed door…

But he knew those sniffles, and he felt his heart break at each one.

With hurried steps, he started opening various doors, not bothering to close them if he peeked inside and didn't see her. "Sybil? Love, answer me, please!"

The sniffles came to a stop, or rather, he heard the sound of someone trying to choke them back and keep themselves under control.

…And from just behind the door to his left.

He pulled the door open and there she was, sitting on the floor, her new blue dress pooled around her and her fingers hastily trying to dry her eyes. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'll…I'll be right there," she muttered, quickly turning her head away, as if she were ashamed of her tears.

But naturally, he didn't listen. To ensure that no servant would wander down the hall and catch them, he quietly shut the door behind him and knelt down beside her, his eyes filled with nothing but love and concern. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing!" she lied, still trying to avoid his eyes. He noticed there was something lying on the ground next to her, something that she was holding…something lacy and white. His brow furrowed as he tried to discern what the object was, and once her eyes realized what he was looking at, quickly tried to hide the object behind her.

"Lord, is that the time?" Sybil murmured, her eyes lifting to the mantle clock above a nearby fireplace. "We better go; Matthew will be expecting you—"

"Don't do that, love."

She finally lifted her gaze to him, and he gently cupped her chin, looking deeply into her eyes…clear and blue and puffy around the edges from her weeping.

"Tom…" she was trying to release his hold, as well as his gaze, but his other hand rose and began running soothing fingers across her cheek, feeling the residue of her tears. "Tom, please, we can't be late; you'll be missed—"

"I doubt that," he grumbled beneath his breath, knowing very well how much his father-in-law wished Sybil had come alone for this wedding. "And even if they do miss me, they'll miss you even more, but I'm not going anywhere until you…tell me…" his words began to trail off as he felt his wife's chin tremble beneath his fingers…and he saw new tears, shimmering in her eyes and threatening to fall. "Oh God, what is it, sweetheart, what did I say?" He hated seeing Sybil cry, because he felt utterly helpless. He had promised to devote every waking minute to her happiness, but when she cried like this, he felt as if he had failed her. "Please, love…please, tell me what's wrong," he begged, his heart breaking with each sniffle and each attempt to keep her emotions at bay, which was truly proving to be a futile effort.

He moved his hand from her chin, and held her face tenderly between both hands, his thumbs moving to wipe away her tears, before bringing his forehead down to touch hers. Gone were those previous worries about becoming the Crawley scapegoat for his tardiness. Nothing mattered more than his beloved Sybil. "Did…did someone say something to you?" he asked. Lately, Sybil had become very self-conscious about her weight and figure. While he saw nothing but beauty, she would complain that she had become a heifer, and the other day she had burst into tears when the new dress she had brought from Dublin for the wedding, wouldn't fit. He never thought he would say this, but thank God for O'Brien; her talents with needle and thread saved the day. Was this why she was so upset? "Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he murmured, before kissing her forehead. "While others may rise and turn their eyes to the bride, I'll be looking directly at you—the most beautiful woman in that entire church."

He had hoped his loving words would make her smile. But sadly, they seemed to have the opposite effect.

A wail, unlike anything he had ever heard before, erupted from her throat and without warning, she threw her arms around his shoulders and buried her face against his chest and began sobbing. He sat frozen for a moment, completely taken aback by the sudden reaction; then his instincts finally got the better of him, and his arms were immediately around her, drawing her closer and holding her tightly. "Shhh…shhh…it's alright, love, it's alright…" It clearly wasn't, but what else could he say? All he could do was try to provide some sort of comfort, so he held her against him and gently ran his fingers up and down her spine. He turned his face into her hair, and began murmuring comforting words in Gaelic, something he only did when either trying to soothe her, or when lost in the passion of their lovemaking. How he wished it was the latter; at least then he could make her smile.

She mumbled something against his chest, but he didn't quite understand her. "What was that, sweetheart?"

She sighed and lifted her head away from his chest, trying to regain some composure. "I said, no…it's _not_ alright," she took a deep breath, and lifted her hands to wipe at her cheeks. "Lord, how I must look—"

"Stop that," he scolded, lifting her chin to look up at him. "You are beautiful Sybil Branson…and I won't let anyone…_even you_, say otherwise."

His heart lifted at the tiny smile she gave him, but he was still concerned by whatever had brought on this feeling of despair. "Now, what do you mean, 'it's not alright'?"

Sybil sighed once again, and opened her mouth to speak, but paused…and then pulled out the white lacy thing he had noticed earlier when he first found her. "She had two…" she whispered, looking down at the strange piece of fabric.

"Two?" he asked, confused by what she meant, and what she was holding.

Sybil nodded. "Two veils," she explained. "Mary…she couldn't decide which one she liked more…the one with lace...or the sheer one with pearls." Tom looked down at the fabric, realizing that she was holding the lacy veil which she had just described. "They were both so lovely…so Papa got her both."

Tom's brow furrowed. He was beginning to sense the problem…

Sybil was still gazing down at the veil, lightly running her fingers across it. "I have to agree with her…" she whispered. "It is very lovely; but I suppose in the end, she chose the sheer veil with pearls." He noticed her fingers tighten a little around the veil. "I wonder what she'll do now with this one?" Before he could answer, although he didn't really have an answer, she continued. "Perhaps give it to Edith, if Sir Anthony has the sense to propose to her as he should have done before the War."

"Aye," he murmured, not really sure on what else to say. He could hear the change in his wife's voice, and he knew Sybil's emotions were going through a metamorphosis, from sorrow to frustration…to bitterness.

"Mary didn't ask Papa to buy her two veils," she continued, still gazing down at the fabric. "She told me it came as a wonderful, pleasant surprise, when Anna brought both to her this morning." Tom knew Sybil had been in Mary's room when he had gone downstairs to press his suit. She would have been there as Mary finished dressing; she would have been there when her family came to fetch her and take her to the church…

"You should have seen them…" Sybil whispered, finally lifting her head away from the veil that she clutched. "Mama and Edith and I were with her, of course, but…when she exited the room, Papa and Carson were standing just below…and…" she bit her lip, trying her hardest to fight the new tears that threatened to fall. "And the way they looked at her! I…I've never seen Papa look so…so…_awed_ doesn't seem to be quite the word, simply because it's such a small, plain word, but…I can't think of a better one."

"Sweetheart…" he tried to draw her back against him, but she struggled out of his arms, and before he knew it, she was on her feet, wildly pacing the room, the veil still clutched in her fist.

"I know I'm not perfect," she muttered, not bothering to look at him, because he would certainly attempt to argue with her on that subject. "I wasn't the girl who cared for balls or dances or endlessly shopping for new frocks; I know that I've challenged the 'rules of society' by—"

"Marrying 'the help'?" he intervened, slowly rising to his own feet as she paced.

Sybil looked at him, but didn't stop her pacing. "You're ten times the man most so-called 'gentlemen' are," she growled under her breath. "But even before we met, Tom—my interests in the suffrage movement, in progressive politics, and then in nursing! Papa and I clearly saw differently on all these things, and I accepted that, truly, and I wouldn't change a thing!"

"Lord, that's a relief!" he tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but now was not the time.

"I meant what I said last year; that I couldn't care less about what 'fine society thought of me'. _This_…my life with you, was what _and_ is what I have always wanted!"

He moved towards her, wanting to take her hand at the very least, but she moved away and opened the doors, continuing her pacing into the hallway. "I know he and I are very different, and I know that Mary is his favorite—and don't argue with me, Tom, its true! The two of them are so similar, and she has always held Downton in the same esteem he has."

He followed her down the hall, but she didn't go very far; she stopped just in front of the staircase, the very staircase her sister had descended in her finery. "And now she's going to marry a man he approves of," he added, as if reading her thoughts.

She turned to face him, and he was surprised to see her anger vanish, melting quickly to guilt and concern. "Oh Tom, forgive me, I didn't mean—"

"Hush, love, I know," he reassured, shaking his head and reaching for her hand once more. This time, thankfully, she took it. "I didn't say that because I feel sorry for myself; I…I knew this wasn't going to be easy…" However, he had never dreamed it would be as difficult as it had been. When he was trying to win her hand, he told her that he would welcome her family with open arms, and he meant it. However, he had also told her that her family would come around to the idea of him being her husband; sadly, this was proving to be much harder than he had imagined.

"I just…" she began, her face contorting with so many different emotions; frustration, pain, anger, sorrow, and perhaps the most heartbreaking one of all, defeat. "I never realized…how much it _hurt_, until I saw him look at her like that."

"Say it, love," he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips. "Let it out."

Her chin trembled once more, but she lifted it and held it high, before throwing her head back and all but shouting, "He wasn't _there_, Tom! On _my_ wedding day, _my father_ wasn't there!"

With a grunt, she turned and hurled the wedding veil over the stair railing, trying to throw it as one would throw a stone, wanting to smash the lacy object into a million pieces, the same pieces in which her broken heart lay.

Of course, a veil can't be smashed. And to defy her, it merely floated to the ground.

Tom never let go of her hand. He simply watched, along with her, as the veil slowly puddled into a lacy heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Sybil was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling as her emotions continued to be at war within her. "He never saw me in my wedding dress…" she whispered, looking down at the fallen veil.

"Pity for him," Tom said with a squeeze of his hand.

A sad smile curled at her lips, and she squeezed his back. "I'll never know what it feels like to be looked upon, like that..."

"That's not true," he softly argued. She lifted her eyes to him in question, and he released her hand, only to wrap his arm around her shoulders. "While he never saw you come down a set of stairs in your wedding dress, he _has_ looked upon you with such pride, with such admiration, with such _awe_, sweetheart; trust me…_I've seen it."_

She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Tom smiled down at her, and leant forward to kiss her brow once more, before resting his cheek upon it. "Remember, I was a servant once—and we see things that you lot sometimes miss," he chuckled softly, but his words were full of sincerity. "When you came back from York with your test results; when you worked here while Downton was a convalescent home; when you returned from London after your first season…I saw how he looked at you. And…despite everything that's recently happened…he _still_ looks at you the same way as he did then; you may just have to squint a little," he grinned, glad that he got a smile from her, and gave her nose a kiss. "But it's true love; while he doesn't agree with all your decisions, including this one," he pointed at himself, "I do think he admires you. I mean that, I do. I think…he's amazed by how…well, by how you have _done it_; followed your heart and never looked back. In fact, I think he even envies you a bit."

"Envies me?" she tried to scoff at the idea, but Tom shook his head.

"You said so yourself, like your sister, he feels duty-bound to this place. Downton was always his destiny; he had no choice. But you surprised everyone, including me," he murmured with a loving smile. "You _chose_ the life you wanted…despite what others thought."

She moved her arms around his waist, and he smiled as he felt her head relax against his shoulder. "And I've never been happier," she whispered, meaning every word. There were times when Tom wondered if that were true; but that was when his self-esteem was at rock bottom. Sybil always found a way to make him believe that despite all the changes her life had gone through, and despite all these trials her family were putting her emotions through…she loved him, and she truly was _happy_.

"I'm a selfish creature," she guiltily sighed. "It's my sister's wedding day, and here I am...feeling sorry for myself."

He grinned and kissed her forehead. "I think you can be forgiven this time, milady," he chuckled as her elbow attempted to nudge him in the ribs.

"Mary and Matthew won't forgive us, though, for holding up the wedding," she groaned, reluctantly releasing her husband. "But despite all my…frustration…I really, truly am happy for my sister."

He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, just as they had done for the first time seven years ago at a garden party. "I know, sweetheart, I know," he lifted her hand to his lips once again and kissed the back of her palm. "But _I'm_ allowed to be selfish," he said with a wink.

Sybil lifted a brow at this. "Oh?"

He grinned that roguish grin of his and nodded his head. "As lovely as Lady Mary will look in her white sheer veil laced with pearls, she will _never_ hold a candle to my own English princess, who _I_ will be watching the entire time, while her older sister comes down the aisle."

Sybil stopped him, and to his happy surprise, took his face between her hands, stood on tip toe, and pressed her mouth against his, kissing him fiercely and passionately with all the love that he too possessed.

She only stopped when breathing became necessary. "Mary is a lucky woman, but _I'm_ the luckiest," she panted, a dark blush coloring her face.

"That's because you married an Irishman," he joked, before giving her another kiss. How he wished to linger against her lips, to let the kiss deepen more and more into what was becoming a frequent occurrence nearly every night since their own wedding. But they were late enough as it was, and what Tom wanted to do with his wife would require _many_ long hours without interruption. "To be continued, Mrs. Branson…"

"Yes, please," she wickedly giggled, before taking his hand once more and walking out the doors of Downton Abbey.

A housemaid came across the veil a little later; she stared at it with confusion, shrugged her shoulders, and returned it to Lady Mary's room. No one, save one couple, would ever know of its strange adventure.

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_THANK YOU FOR READING! Please leave a comment! And let me know if you are interested in a follow-up chapter :o)_


	2. Chapter 2

_WOW! I am so amazed and flattered by the response that this little story got! When I decided to write it, my original plan was to make it a one-shot. But then I thought (in order for my own Robert/Sybil therapy to be complete) the two of them needed to more or less "have it out". So now it's multi-chaptered. My goal is to keep it contained to 3 chapters...but you never know! This chapter became much longer than I had planned, so we'll see what happens!_

_The last chapter was uniquely Sybil/Branson, but this chapter will explore the POV's from other characters, including Robert and Cora (this is completely new territory for me, as Sybil and Branson are the only characters whose POV's I've explored in fic, so I **hope** Robert and Cora sound like Robert and Cora) :oP Also, I was inspired by an essay I read on Tumblr that was written in defense of Robert; while I don't agree with everything the author had to say, it did open my eyes to Robert's perspective a little more, so I tried to capture that in this chapter._

_I *will* get this story completed BEFORE Sunday, so it won't have to compete with what really takes place in the show (because it will no doubt be somewhat AU when season 3 starts). THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and commented! I hope you continue to enjoy, and don't worry, more Love's Journey is on its way as well!_

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**Chapter Two**

The wedding had been perfect; everyone was saying so.

Mary, who normally kept her emotions to herself, especially when she stood in front of a large audience, couldn't stop smiling as Robert led her down the aisle. Of course, her eyes were fixed on his now son-in-law, who was also gazing back at her in both astonishment and loving amazement.

Robert was in a haze the entire time. He had been in that haze ever since Mary had descended the stairs. He didn't trust his voice because he could feel a large, emotional lump, filling his throat. So he gripped both his wife and daughter's arm as they made their way to the church, wondering if he dared to let go, would he be able to stand at all? He always thought mothers were the ones to lose themselves to their emotions at weddings. He never realized how deeply the entire occasion would affect him. By some miracle, he had managed to make it down the aisle with Mary's arm holding tight to his, and he managed to keep his legs from buckling beneath him as he gave her hand to Matthew, reluctantly letting go. Behind him he heard Cora's voice, softly calling for him to join her and the other girls in their pew, but it took Edith's gentle tug on his sleeve before he registered what he was supposed to do.

Mary…his first born…his daughter whom he had wished all his life, he could pass his estate, his title, his inheritance to, without the whole silly business of succession. While the law denied him the right to do those things, he could now relax knowing that everything he had hoped for would indeed come to her…but more importantly, she would be marrying a man who was her equal in everything, just has Cora was his.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Robert turned to see Cora smiling up at him, her hand moving to wrap around his arm. They were back at the house, standing in the ballroom, while a string quartet played and various couples danced, but none looking as elegant as that of the bride and groom who stood in the center.

"It was truly, a beautiful wedding, Robert," Cora sighed happily, leaning her head against his shoulder. He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. No doubt his mother would frown upon this blatant display of emotional affection by the present Countess of Grantham, but on such an occasion as this, such affection could be allowed. Besides, there was always the excuse that she was American.

"You should dance with her again," Cora encouraged. "I'm sure your steps will be much more confident than before."

Robert groaned, recalling how he had practically tripped over his clumsy feet. He blamed his emotions; they were clearly clouding more than just his judgment.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured to Cora, smiling as he watched Mary and Matthew dance. "Look at her; she looks so happy."

Cora nodded her head. "She does; but then we always knew that Matthew had that ability to bring out that happiness."

Robert felt that lump swell once more, so he merely nodded his head.

"Will you dance with me?"

He looked down at his wife, lifting a teasing brow. "Isn't that what you asked me, when we first met at that ball in London?"

Cora shook her head. "I believe _my mother_ asked you, before pushing me into your arms, much to your own mother's mortification."

Robert chuckled, kissing Cora's hand once more. "It would be an honor, Lady Grantham."

He led her back onto the floor, and they joined the many other couples that were dancing. His mother sat in a corner, and gave a stiff nod of approval, with a small, slight smile, as they made eye contact. He then followed her eyes as they frowned upon the figure of his mother-in-law, who was dancing with Dr. Clarkson, and talking far too loudly, even for an American.

"Your mother seems to be enjoying herself," Robert commented.

Cora laughed and gave a slight roll of her eyes. "She told me she intends to dance with every man, if her feet can hold up to it; so be careful."

"Perhaps I can avoid it if I change partners before she spots me?"

Cora gave his arm a slight swat, but joined in his chuckle. "That's not a bad idea; but it needs to be someone you haven't danced with—she won't feel guilty for taking you away from someone you already have."

"My dance with Edith was interrupted by Sir Anthony Strallen; perhaps I can convince her to dance with me again?"

Cora pursed her lips, as if she were deep in thought…but Robert knew that look, and could tell she already had an answer.

"What about…Sybil?"

Robert nearly tripped, just as he had done when dancing with Mary. "Sybil?"

The amused expression Cora had been wearing earlier began to fade, and Robert did everything in his power to suppress the groan he could feel in his throat. He was about to be given a lecture.

"You haven't danced with her all evening."

"I…" he was trying to think of a proper excuse. "I…I can't, she's been…otherwise occupied."

Cora gave him a look that told him she knew better. "She's danced with Matthew, Dr. Clarkson, Evelyn Nappier, and Tom. _Especially_ Tom."

Robert couldn't help but make a face at how freely his wife said the ex-chauffeur's name. She was supposed to be on his side in all this, and yet despite having told him at Christmas that this wasn't what she wanted for their daughter, she still insisted on inviting him…and then she greeted him by calling him "Tom" and going out of her way to make him feel at home, even though he had more or less _stolen_ their daughter!

He glanced over to where Sybil was; she had just risen from a chair and was once again dancing with…_him_. He felt his jaw tighten as he watched Branson slide his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to his body, before leaning close, whispering something in her ear, and then blatantly kissing her, _right there on the dance floor._

"Good God," he muttered, turning his eyes away from the display. "Have they no sense of propriety?"

Cora turned her eyes to where his had been. "Oh for heaven's sake, Robert; they're a young, married couple—"

"Don't remind me," he muttered.

"Robert!"

He sighed and looked down at the ground. Alright, perhaps that had been uncalled for, but…he couldn't help it. Why couldn't Sybil have fallen for a man like Matthew? A good, sensible—

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tug on his hands. He soon realized that the tug was coming from Cora, and she was leading him off the dance floor. He opened his mouth to ask why, but one look from her silenced him on the matter. Apparently the lecture was going to continue…

Once they were well out of ear-shot from the rest of the guests, Cora looked up at him with a very annoyed expression. "Robert, this needs to stop."

"Stop? Cora, what on earth—"

"You know perfectly well what I mean," she hissed. "I refuse to sit through another day while you and Sybil fire daggers at one another from across the dining room table; she's _your daughter,_ Robert, the very least you can do is talk to her."

"She won't listen!" he hissed back. Why was Cora doing this now? He had been so happy earlier, so blissfully happy, but she seemed to insist on drudging up painful memories and sour thoughts. "The second I open my mouth, she rolls her eyes, makes some cutting remark, or walks away—"

He stopped when he saw his wife throw her head back and laugh. Laugh! Right in his face! "I'm glad you find it so amusing," he grumbled.

"Amusing?" Cora questioned, her voice anything but merry. "Oh no, Robert, I find none of this amusing. If truth be told, I find it downright silly—and that's putting it politely! No, the reason for my laugh is because…you two are more alike than you realize. You both can be pig-headed and stubborn to a fault; you both struggle to admit when you're wrong, and you both erupt like volcanoes when it comes to something you feel passionate about."

He stared at her, not knowing how to respond. It was always assumed that Sybil took after Cora, that she was the "most American" out of his three daughters. She certainly seemed to display that "independent spirit" those yanks seemed to be so proud to flaunt. And yet…he knew deep down, Cora was right. While he saw a bit of himself in all of his daughters…during the War, he was amazed with how much he saw in Sybil. That passion, that drive, that need to do something, to be a part of something—Sybil had that too. But unlike him, who was told to go home and more or less be the glorified mascot for the county…Sybil pushed through and found her voice as an auxiliary nurse. Sybil always had a way of pushing through to make her voice be heard, no matter how many voices were telling her to pipe down.

"Robert…" Cora's voice was bringing him back to the present. It was much calmer now, and she looked up at him with loving concern. "What's done is done. We need to make the best of it." He opened his mouth to say something, but Cora pushed through. "He clearly loves her, Robert. I know, it's not what we had planned, it's not what we had hoped for…but…she _is_ happy. Can't you see that? How happy he makes her? How happy this…life that she has created for herself, makes her? We don't have to agree with everything, but…can't we at the very least, _accept that_ and make our peace?"

She kept using the words "our" and "we", but he knew deep down they were singular words, and all about him. Cora had apparently made her peace with Branson; that was evident when she greeted him as "Tom" upon his arrival. But he…it still hurt. If truth be told…her choice to run away to Ireland, to marry this man and live a life far beyond the life she had at Downton…felt like a slap in the face. In other words, he felt utterly rejected.

"Talk to her, Robert, please…" Cora pleaded, as if reading his very thoughts. "Otherwise she'll return to Dublin and…who knows…"

He stiffened slightly at his wife's words. No doubt she meant that Sybil would choose not to visit, at least not for some time. But he was aware of the tensions kindling in Ireland, and it was yet another reason as to why he couldn't stand his revolutionary son-in-law; couldn't Branson see the danger his brash ideas were placing on Sybil? On their unborn child?

Oh God, the child…

Robert still didn't know what to make of it all. Sybil was far too young to be having children! Foolish girl! And damn Branson! And yet ever since they had learned the news, Cora couldn't stop prattling about the upcoming birth of their first grandchild. She was even _knitting_, for God's sake! Booties, in both pink and blue! Oh Lord, that was just what he needed; a grandson, a possible _heir_ to Downton…conceived by the rebellious, Irish, ex-chauffeur.

"Robert?" Cora shook his arm. He had gone awfully quiet even though he was sure she could hear his jaw cracking.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he stated, his tone final. "At least…not yet."

But Cora wouldn't be Cora if she didn't have the final say, no matter how final his tone sounded.

"Robert…I know this is hard for you, and while you may scoff at me for saying that," she added because he had made a scoffing sound with his throat, "I am aware that…that you are hurt. And I don't mean to belittle that pain. But…" she paused and took a deep breath. "We would be horrible parents, if we did not see and acknowledge that our daughter is in pain, too."

Robert's brow furrowed at his wife's words. "Pain? What do you mean?"

Cora squeezed his hands and nodded her head. "You see a stubborn girl who wants to do nothing but challenge and rebel against you. But if you get past all that, you will also see a woman who…who sat by my side at her sister's wedding, watching her father walk her sister down that aisle, and stand by while the vicar asked 'who presents this woman'…and whose cheeks were stained with tears, and not all out of loving, sisterly happiness, I'm afraid." Cora paused, and lifted her fingers to wipe her own eyes. "Robert…there are few things I regret in life, and I mean that, truly. But…one thing I regret…and that I struggle with forgiving myself…is…is not being there for her, on her wedding day."

"Cora—"

"I know, I know, we were upset, we were hurt, we didn't know how to handle the scandal that well, but…we _still_ should have gone, Robert."

He remembered when the announcement came, he merely passed it to Cora without even bothering to tell her what it was. While she read the invitation, he poured himself a very large brandy, but it was not a drink of celebration. After she finished reading it, she lifted her eyes to meet his, a clear question in their blue depths. But he said nothing. He merely continued to drink from his glass, until the brandy was gone.

She never argued with him about the decision. But he could tell that it had been eating away at her ever since the announcement came.

"Can we…can we just continue dancing?" he asked, not wanting to dwell on the guilt that he had worked so hard to suppress. "Let's not spoil the day; this is meant to be a happy occasion."

Cora nodded her head, but the smile she wore was the opposite of happy. He understood; neither was his. He took her hand and led her back onto the ballroom floor once; clearly, they hadn't been missed. He tried to focus on his wife, tried to remember their own wedding day, and the reception that had followed, and how even though at the time it had been a marriage of convenience to save his father's estate, he couldn't keep his eyes off his new American bride.

Robert seemed to finally be able to relax as these old memories danced around his head as he danced with his wife…until fate, it would seem, had other plans…and he suddenly felt his back bump into another.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry—"

He froze, as he turned his face to see none other than is revolutionary son-in-law.

* * *

It had been a beautiful wedding, just as she knew it would be.

Matthew looked very smart and distinguished in his fine, pressed suit, and she grinned as she watched his eyes grow wide and his jaw, for the merest of moments, fall open as Mary entered the church. Sybil had turned and glanced back at her sister, her own eyes brimming with tears—happy tears this time—as Mary began to make her descent, while soft "Ooo's" filled the church. Her eyes then fell on the man walking beside her sister, and Sybil had to bite her lip to keep her smile in place. A wave of bitterness threatened to return, but she remembered what she had been told if this were to happen, so she immediately turned her eyes to the front, and saw him gazing back at her, just as he had said he would.

_"Just look at me; if the pain seems too great, or for any reason whatsoever…if you need you to, just turn your head and you'll find me…because I'll be looking at _you_ the whole time…"_

Sybil's smile returned as she held his gaze, and then a deep blush flooded her cheeks as he gave her a little wink! Her hand flew to her mouth, and she quickly looked around, wondering if anyone else had caught it. A smug smirk spread across his face, and Sybil only shook her head, as if she were tutting him, when truly, she couldn't be more amazed with how lucky she was to have such a man love her.

Mary arrived then, and Matthew took her hand, after Papa placed it into his. The vicar asked "Who presents this woman?" and Sybil frowned slightly as she reflected on the man's words, as well as on all the traditions of a wedding ceremony. There seemed to be a great deal of male dominance, especially in the language used. The father "giving the bride away", as if she were a token; the vicar's question about to whom she more or less "belongs" to, as she is passed from one man to another—never mind that she is her own person! Perhaps she was being silly about this whole business with her parents' absence? She presented _herself_ to her husband when she walked down that aisle a year ago. There was no man to say "I present her", or "I give her", or "I will barter two goats and one horse if you will take her off my hands," and other such nonsense. And she remembered how Tom had argued with the priest about changing the words from "man and wife" to "husband and wife", because the latter sounded more like a marriage of equals…which was what they both wanted.

_Maybe I am being foolish? After all, these old fashioned phrases hardly match the person that I am—in fact, they go against it, quite a bit!_

And yet…

She knew, deep down, it was more than that. She watched Edith tug on her father's arm, drawing his attention to them, and pulling him back to their family pew. She saw the tears in his eyes, the absolute awe she had seen earlier, reflected once more, as he gazed up at her sister while she repeated the vows the vicar had charged her with.

No…this was not about old fashioned words or traditions. Just as she had said to Tom earlier…she yearned to know what it would feel like to be looked upon by her father, just as he was looking upon Mary now. And while Tom was insistent that her father did look at her with eyes of admiration, she still had doubts, especially now while she watched him give way to his emotions and silently weep in joy.

The ceremony seemed to go so quickly. Before she realized it, the organ was playing and the bride and groom were leading the congregation up the aisle. She dutifully followed her mother, whose hand she had been squeezing for…how long? She wasn't sure. But if truth be told, she appreciated the gesture. Tom had followed the vicar, who followed Mary and Matthew. They were far ahead of her, and her mother seemed to be refusing to relinquish her hold on her. So Sybil continued to hold her mother's hand, just as Edith held the other, and they followed the party back to the house, where the ballroom glistened with flowers and ivy boughs, and a string quartet began playing, while people lined up to wish the bride and groom joy.

That was when Tom found her.

"How are you?" he whispered, his hand gently running up and down her spine in a way that made her want to do nothing more than melt against him.

"I'm fine, thank you," she whispered back, meaning it and smiling up at him. He returned the smile and took her hand in his, before raising it to his lips in a loving kiss.

"Shall we go and congratulate the happy couple?" he asked, his thumb running tender circles along her knuckles.

Sybil smiled and nodded her head, letting him tuck her arm into his, as they joined the que. She hugged both Mary and Matthew and kissed their cheeks. Branson shook their hands, and with what she could only describe as a "brave sigh", leaned in and gave his sister-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek.

After congratulations had been made by all who were there, a small meal was served, followed by what everyone was truly anticipating—dancing! Sybil's hand fell across her belly, which was only recently finally starting to show. She wouldn't be able to dance as much as she would like, but that was fine—in all honesty, there was only man she wanted to dance with. "Mrs. Branson?" she heard him murmur, standing up from his chair and holding his hand out to her. "May I have the honor?"

Sybil grinned and took his hand in hers. "Most certainly, Mr. Branson."

They danced two in a row, and then to be polite, she danced with Evelyn Nappier while Tom danced with Edith. She later danced with Dr. Clarkson, and then a bit later, danced with the groom, himself, while Tom politely asked Mary to dance. Sybil had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the rather stiff way the two of them were moving, but she knew deep down this was a bit of an awkward moment for them both. As soon as the music ended, Tom gave a polite bow, and then quickly retreated to Sybil's side. "There, I've done my duty," he whispered, to which she finally gave in to her giggles.

Of course, no sooner had he said those words, her American grandmother was tapping his shoulder. "Well young man, I'd say this is our dance?"

"Seems that duty continues to call," Sybil whispered in his ear.

"Come now, Mr. Branson, let poor Sybil rest—you and I haven't had a chance to talk without various Crawley members eavesdropping, and I would like to get to know this Irish rebel who has stolen my granddaughter's heart to the point that she's about to give birth to my first great-grandchild."

"Grandmama!" Sybil gasped, her cheeks burning at the woman's words, even though she shouldn't have been surprised; her grandmother always enjoyed shocking people, especially the British.

"Sit down, Sybil, and rest your feet," her grandmother playfully chastised, before dragging Tom back onto the ballroom floor. "Now if there was only some way we could convince that quartet to play a foxtrot…"

Sybil blushed deeply, wondering what sort of interrogation her grandmother was going to put her husband through. Still, she doubted it could be any worse than the cold shoulder he was receiving from the rest of his in-laws, save Matthew. Thank God for him. Matthew did seem to have a "calming effect" on her family—he certainly seemed to lighten any tensions she feared would present themselves between Tom and Mary. And Edith had certainly been accommodating, even though she wasn't one for confrontations with Papa, but she did try to keep the peace when she could. And Mama was also trying; it warmed Sybil's heart when she recalled how her mother didn't hesitate in shaking his hand and greeting him as "Tom". Really…at the end of the day, it was her father and granny. Well, Granny was Granny, and little could be done there. But Papa…

She had foolishly assumed that when he gave her his blessing to follow her heart to Ireland with Tom, he had also given her his approval of her choice. But the truth became quite clear, when her mother wrote to her, offering their apologies for not being able to attend the wedding. While the excuse had been for "health reasons", Sybil knew better. While she was grateful that her sisters could make the journey, and that she had _some_ family present…it still hurt to see an empty pew, where her parents would have sat.

"Lord, your grandmother can dance!" Tom gasped, returning to her side and looking quite out of breath.

Sybil put on a smile, grateful to have him back. "I hope the interrogation wasn't too rough?"

Tom laughed. "You know, while she can be…brash, I like your grandmother. But she can keep a man on his toes, both with her questions and with her dancing."

Sybil grinned and reached over to run her fingers along his cheek. "I pray she didn't tire you out, _completely?"_ She tried to look innocent, but there was no mistake about the meaning behind her words, and now it was her turn to smirk triumphantly at her husband's groan.

"Have no fear, love; I always manage to rally for you…"

Sybil nibbled on her bottom lip, wondering if he was thinking what she was. Would anyone _really_ notice if they slipped out? After all, she was a married woman; she didn't need to be present for the bouquet toss. "Shall we have one more dance before retiring, Mr. Branson?" she asked in her most innocent voice.

Tom's eyes widened at her question, and she could tell he would very much like to continue this…_conversation_…and very soon. "Aye, I think I can manage that," he whispered, rising from his chair and extending a hand to his wife. She smiled and took it, blushing deeply as she felt his arm encircle her waist and draw her close. Whenever he touched her, she felt shivers run up and down her spine. But those tremors were nothing compared to the way he whispered in her ear, "…But can _you_ manage what I have planned for _you_, Mrs. Branson?"

Sybil literally whimpered at his heated promise, blushing very deeply for fear that someone may have heard her. Tom chuckled and leaned in to kiss her, a kiss that promised many more adventures when they were alone. Even though she was eager to retreat to their room where they could embark on those adventures, she did enjoy the feeling of being held in his arms and dancing with him, openly and freely. She recalled the servant's balls in the past, where she timidly danced with him, unsure of how she felt, scared even by the emotions that filled her head and her heart. Then, when she did realize how she felt, she was so afraid that others would notice and try and take him away from her. Now…there was no need to fear. No one was going to take him away, no one was going to separate them. He was her husband, plain and simple. And she was at complete liberty to kiss him, touch him, and be alone with him, without anyone telling her not to. And that included dancing with him, like now.

Tom seemed to notice the dreamy expression on her face. "Hey now," he teased. "You're not allowed to go there without me."

Sybil blushed and gave his chest a playful swat. "I was just enjoying the dance," she retorted with a slight poke of the tongue. "And thinking how nice it is…to be able to do something as simple as this."

He smiled and pulled her a little closer. "Aye," he whispered, before bending his head to hers. Sybil anticipated the kiss, so she began to lift her head to meet his…but was stopped short, when she realized that Tom's back had accidently bumped into that of another couple.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry—"

Sybil froze at the sound of the man's voice, as did her husband. Her father didn't even have to turn around; they knew it was him.

Tom released her and straightened up, lifting his chin and setting his jaw. "It was my fault, your Lordship," he replied, his tone as stiff as his posture. "We—I mean, _I_, wasn't paying attention…terribly sorry."

Sybil kept her eyes fixed on Tom's tie. She could feel the bitterness begin to rekindle, and she didn't trust herself if she looked into her father's eyes. _Just mutter something, Papa, and leave us alone,_ she found herself thinking. However, she was not going to get her wish.

"Tom!" her mother's voice rang rather loudly, not very different from her grandmother. "I…I don't believe we've had the chance to dance this evening, am I right?"

Tom's stiff posture went slack momentarily at her mother's question. He turned to look at Sybil, whose eyes went wide as she suddenly realized what her mother was trying to propose. "Mama—"

"Robert, I have the most wonderful idea; let's switch partners. You dance with Sybil while I'll dance with Tom."

"Mama!"

But she ignored Sybil's protests, and literally, cut in between herself and Tom. Sybil stared wide-eyed as Tom was more or less "helplessly carried away" by her mother, leaving her there to face her father, who was looking every bit as uncomfortable as she was feeling.

"Well…"

"Yes…"

They both stood rather awkwardly, unsure what to do or say next. Sybil was sure she heard her mother mutter something nearby, like "for heaven's sakes!" She closed her eyes, groaned, and then finally lifted her eyes to her father. "Shall we?" she asked, although there was as much joy in her voice as one who was being sent to gather thistles.

* * *

Cora watched as her daughter and husband stood facing one another, not exactly sure what to do, just…standing there, like two, awkward scarecrows. "For heaven's sakes!" she muttered, rather loudly, but then that was the point; she hoped they heard her, because they were being so foolish.

Finally, she noticed Sybil lift her eyes to Robert and murmur something which was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as it was given…which was very little. Both she and her son-in-law watched with somewhat bated breath, as the two stiff scarecrows took to the dance floor, each avoiding the other's gaze, each looking tight-lipped and uncomfortable.

Cora sighed miserably. "I thought it would do them some good…"

"It still might, your Ladyship," Tom replied.

Cora turned her attention back to her son-in-law and shook her head. "Oh Tom, please…despite what my husband or mother-in-law may say, you _are_ family now, so please…call me Cora."

He gave a small smile at this, although she knew it would still take quite some time before he could feel comfortable enough to do that. It didn't help that her husband reinforced that understanding by his cold aloofness.

"Tell me, Tom…is she…" she began, and stopped, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer to her question, but knew deep down she would not have peace if she didn't. "Was Sybil…very upset?" He looked confused, so she clarified. "When we…when we didn't come for the wedding?"

His eyes widened slightly, clearly unprepared for the question. However, Cora knew she could trust her son-in-law to not keep the truth from her, no matter what O'Brien said about him. "She was, your La—Cora," he amended.

"And…now?"

He sighed and held her gaze. "I'm afraid she still is."

Cora closed her eyes, her heart breaking and her arms aching to clutch her youngest daughter and beg for her forgiveness. "I was afraid of that…" she whispered, shaking her head in shame. "Oh Tom…I…do you think she will let me speak with her later? I want to tell her how sorry I am for disappointing her—and for disappointing you, as well."

Tom's eyes widened even more at these words, and he looked completely taken aback by her apology. _We haven't done right by either of them,_ Cora thought to herself, sadly. While she wished her daughter every luxury under the sun, Cora Crawley did know that there were some things that couldn't be bought. She had seen so many of her friends, each hailing from a wealthy American family, each being "auctioned off" to the highest bidder with a title. How many of those girls had been frightened, coming to a place where the language was the same (for the most part) but the customs were so different? How many of those girls ended up in unhappy marriages, where their in-laws, neighbors, and even their own husbands, disrespected them and looked down upon them, even though their money was what saved the estate from going into ruin? Happiness and marital bliss were not guarantees, no matter how much money one partner brought to the marriage. Cora knew that unlike her friends, she had been very, _very_ lucky, to not only marry a man who respected her, but who did, eventually, fall in love with her. And she, him. She knew what that happiness looked like…and she saw it every time she caught Tom and Sybil looking at one another.

"Sybil!"

The hiss, though it wasn't meant to draw attention, did quite the opposite. Both Cora and Tom turned their heads to see Robert, running a hand through his hair in complete irritation, while watching his daughter stop just a few feet away from him, clearly preparing to storm out of the ballroom.

Sybil paused, turned her attentions back to her father, and muttered something under her breath. Cora wished she knew what her daughter had said, but whatever it was…Robert did not look pleased. However, Sybil did not storm off like Cora thought she would; rather, she quietly walked towards a doorway that led out into the hall, and waited for her father to join her. Only when he did follow, did the two of them disappear around a corner, no doubt so they could properly have it out, in private.

Cora closed her eyes and groaned. "Oh dear…"

"Aye…" Tom agreed.

* * *

_Don don don! You can guess what happens next. So right now, I'm planning to wrap it all up in the next chapter, but at the same time, it wouldn't surprise me if I have to make 4 chapters, just based on length. Either way, stay tuned! And please leave a comment! THANK YOU!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Here it is! CONFRONTATION TIME! Mrs. Sybil Branson vs. Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham. Prepare for the angst-driven drama! :oP_

_In all seriousness, THANK YOU to all of you out there who have left comments, who have favorited, who have subscribed, and who have read! I am very grateful to all the support and encouragement, and thank you from the bottom of my heart! I hope, despite the emotion of this chapter, that you enjoy! It was tough to write, but I am proud of it, and I feel that they both got *a lot* off their chests. Hope you find it "satisfying" too, in a manner of speaking._

_ALSO...**a quick shout out to Tegan Ganmore** (who kindly wrote me a review despite being very sleepy); she inspired me because she thought Sybil's confrontation should be seen from Robert's POV-I went with this idea, and I'm very happy with it!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

She had been resigned.

Clearly, the homecoming she was expecting, the homecoming she had been hoping for, was very different from the homecoming to which she did encounter.

That isn't to say she was completely naïve; yes, she expected things to be a little awkward—after all, the last time she had seen or spoken with her parents had been before she left for Ireland. Then, she was still a single woman whose last name was Crawley; now, she was Mrs. Sybil Branson…and with a child on the way! Even though she had written to her family, telling them before her arrival, she still knew it would be a lot to swallow, especially for her father. But…when the mysterious gift of money came, giving both her and Tom the opportunity to travel back to England and be present for Mary's wedding…Sybil was just so hopeful that…that it was the sign she had been praying for. For whom else could the money be from, but her father? _He wants me—no, he wants _us_, to be there!_

Tom was not so easily convinced, but he kept his opinions to himself, and took the money the next day to purchase their tickets for their voyage. She remembered grinning like the Cheshire Cat during the entire journey; she couldn't stop smiling. From the boat to the train to the car…she kept smiling, and when the house came into sight, she reached over and squeezed her husband's hand so hard that he actually winced from the pressure. She wanted to bolt from the car into her father's arms and thank him, over and over for his generous gift, for inviting them back, for finally coming around!

But there was enough Crawley still left in her to be a little reserved, so she didn't bolt, but instead walked very briskly to him, before embracing him while her mother greeted Tom.

And that was when the dream began to shatter.

Her father wasn't trying to pretend for the sake of humility; he genially had no idea what she was talking about when she asked him about the money. In fact, he looked at her mother, his eyes full of question and trepidation. So the money hadn't come from him...and as she watched him turn back into house, without so much as a nod of the head to her husband…a sick feeling began to grow in her stomach, as if her child knew it wasn't welcome.

No…it wasn't…and neither was she or her husband. She had sailed across the choppy Irish Sea, she had ridden in a third-class passenger train car, and she had ridden in the back of her father's car by a chauffeur who clearly needed to retire from his profession. And yet, it wasn't until she stood there on the front steps of her childhood home, that she felt nauseous.

The days that followed were not easy ones, for either of them.

She and Tom had had many discussions in the days leading up to their voyage, some of them calm, and some of them turning into arguments, about "how to behave" while at Downton. God bless him, he tried; he had bought a new suit, one that Sybil thought he looked very handsome in, but compared to the elegant dinner attire of her family, it did make him stand out like the preverbal sore thumb. This didn't help with his nervousness, nor did the awkward pauses and narrow glances he received, while she tried her best to silently guide him on what fork to use during the various courses. Not that the family dinners she remembered throughout her life were ever overly "warm" affairs, but this reception chilled her beyond words. And poor Tom looked like a panicked rabbit when the meal ended and it was time for the ladies to leave the gentlemen. She later found herself wondering, _who invented that silly tradition in the first place?_

Matthew, Edith, and her mother, tried to make pleasant conversation. Even Mary seemed perfectly civil! Granny on the other hand, had no tact when it came to asking personal questions, and Sybil remembered seething as she watched her father role his eyes every so often whenever Tom attempted to answer those questions.

And of course…it was only a matter of time before something political came up.

She had been mortified by the argument that had taken place. She honestly didn't know who she was more upset with; her husband for losing his temper, or her father who, despite his "years of maturity", had egged him on? When she and Tom retreated to their room, they had it out, both of them nearly shouting at one another over the entire incident. Tom even threatened to sleep in the adjoining dressing room, but she raced across the floor and purposefully blocked his exit, folding her arms and lifting her chin, telling him plainly that he wasn't going anywhere; he was her husband and damn it, he belonged by her side, no matter how upset they were with each other!

He stared at her after her angry and passionate declaration, her chest rising and falling with each heated breath…and then he closed the space between them, taking her face in his hands, and kissing her so deeply that all her breath was robbed from her lungs.

_"God, I love you," he groaned, when his mouth parted from hers, his words coming out in a gasp. "I don't deserve you—"_

_ "Don't say that," she moaned, her fingers tangling in the hairs at the back of his neck. "Don't believe what they tell you for a second."_

_ "I'm sorry, Sybil, I let them get the better of me—"_

_ "No, I'm sorry, Tom; I should have supported you—"_

_ "You __do__ support me, love; I know that, and when I have a cool and level head, I'm very aware of that. I'm so sorry for embarrassing you, though; I never seem to know when to keep my mouth shut—"_

_ "I don't want you to; I love that about you. You see or hear injustice and you don't hesitate, you respond instead of 'politely ignoring it'; you don't suffer from passive-aggressive—"_

He kissed her then, and she melted against him, and within a few moments, the room was filled with shouting of a _very_ _different_ sort.

Sybil had hoped that after the explosive argument, things would have been better. She hoped that perhaps her mother would have spoken to her father, and that while things would be awkward the next day, both Tom and her father would more or less let bygones be bygones, and move forward.

Well, she got _part_ of her wish.

There were no more arguments, because her father wouldn't talk to Tom at all. Her father went out of his way to keep his distance; he would breakfast earlier than usual, and then disappear into his library and not emerge until mealtimes.

Her American grandmother was a welcome distraction, and Sybil would never be able to thank Matthew enough for more or less "taking Tom under his wing"; the two men did indeed seem to form some sort of bond, which made Sybil smile. And in the days leading up to her sister's wedding, Sybil felt she was growing closer to both of them, once again. Perhaps these signs of peace would be good for the future?

But the second that thought crossed her head, Sybil felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Would it really take something as horrible as…as _her father's death_ before she and Tom would feel welcome at Downton Abbey? Tom found her weeping a little later, and Sybil begged him to give their excuses for dinner; she couldn't go down there and face him, not when such an atrocious thought had crossed her mind.

Just as her father had avoided them…so too did she avoid him. But…it was very hard to avoid him now, after her mother had "stolen" her husband, leaving her stranded on the ballroom floor with no other partner but her father. With a reluctant groan, she actually made the offer to dance, and he stiffly took her hands and began to move in a most uncomfortable and awkward waltz.

She tried to glance to where Tom and her mother were, hoping to at least catch his eyes, desperately needing a sign of encouragement. However, because she wasn't paying attention, her foot came down rather hard atop her father's, and he let out a mad hiss of pain.

"Ahhh!" he gasped, trying hard to keep his voice low. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed.

Sybil gasped, and for a brief moment, forgot all about her anger and felt awful. "Oh Papa, I'm so sorry—"

He muttered something. And even though she had barely heard it…she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he grumbled, straightening his back and trying to resume the dance.

However, Sybil was having none of it, and instead, took a step away from him and folded her arms across her chest. "Tell me," she growled.

Her father rolled his eyes. "Really, it's nothing—"

"Don't do that!" she hissed, surprising her father (and herself) with the venom in her voice. "Don't you dare roll your eyes at me! I asked you a question and you will answer me!"

"Sybil, what on earth has gotten into you?" he whispered, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. "Really, you're making mountains out of molehills—"

"If that were true, then why won't you simply tell me what you said?" she challenged.

His frown was dark and somewhat menacing. Once upon a time, it would have frightened her and she would have looked down at the ground, her eyes filling with tears as she asked for his forgiveness, promising to never speak in such an unladylike manner again.

…But she wasn't a child anymore. And it was time for him to see that such looks had no power over her as they once had.

"I blame Branson for this," he groaned, rolling his eyes once again. "You never spoke like this, let alone fly off the handle before he—SYBIL!"

His hiss was much louder than he had clearly intended. As soon as he began putting the blame on Tom, she rolled her own eyes in disgust (see how he likes it?) and began to walk away. If there was one thing she knew that her father despised more than anything, it was being purposefully disrespected. And turning her back on him as she had just done, clearly hit the mark. Yet when he hissed her name, not only did it turn her head, but the heads of several others.

_No…no, I will _not_ do this to Mary and Matthew…_

"Papa," she whispered in a most civil tone (or at least in as civil a tone as possible) "I refuse to have this discussion here…" and with that, she turned and began walking towards the door. However, she did stop and turn and look at him, waiting for him to follow. _This is it,_ she thought to herself. _This is actually going to happen…_

No turning back. No more hiding. No more crying behind closed doors or attempts at avoiding the elephant in the room. She suddenly remembered the conversation she and her father had had a year ago, after she had told everyone about her plans to marry Tom. In some ways, this didn't feel that different…but in other ways, it felt so much worse.

Sybil knew…after this "discussion", things would truly be forever changed between the two of them. And she feared it would not be for the better.

* * *

Robert stood gaping at his daughter as she once more, began to walk away from him. What in God's name had gotten into her? She never used to be like this, losing her temper at the drop of a pin—had she? No, no, she was stubborn, yes, but…this was different, and he didn't like it, not one bit!

She paused at the door, turning and looking at him expectantly, and he realized she was waiting for him! Oh Good God, what now? The expression on her face said enough; with just a flick of her eyes, she was…well, she was more or less ordering him to follow! He felt his spine stiffen at the realization and he was tempted…oh, very tempted…to not move a muscle.

But a few people were looking at them. He lifted his eyes heavenward, wondering why he was being punished. He didn't want those stares to continue, nor did he want to draw any further attention away from Mary and Matthew—at least that was one area where he and his youngest daughter saw eye to eye.

With a deep sigh of resignation, he straightened his suit jacket, and followed her out of the ballroom into the hall, away from the eyes and ears of their family and guests.

If truth be told…he was a little afraid to go around that corner. What would be awaiting him, there? Would she unleash this demonic fury that seemed to have her possessed? Would she start throwing things at him? Hurling her fists at him? He wouldn't be surprised if she began insulting him with words that no decent, respectful lady should know, let alone say. _Ah, but she's not a lady anymore, is she? She turned her back on that, just as she turned her back on you._

Robert swallowed and bravely stepped around the corner…only to see his daughter standing a few feet away, with her back to him.

She didn't move. In fact, she looked as if she were studying the potted plant that stood just opposite of her. He waited, even going so far as to clear his throat to let her know he had followed her, that he was there…but still, she didn't move.

Robert was tired of this. And once more, he blamed Branson for this, entirely. Not only had the man polluted his daughter's mind with Socialist propaganda, but apparently he had taught her to be disrespectful and rude! She was never like this before that bloody chauffeur—

"What was it that you said, Papa?"

"What?" he gaped at her back, wondering if he had heard her correctly?

She sighed and then slowly turned to face him, her face calm and her eyes steady as they gazed back into his own. "I would like you to please repeat yourself; whatever it was that you said in there, while we were dancing…"

Robert stared at her in utter bafflement. Was _this_ really why she had lost her temper? Over something so silly and trivial? She had asked him to follow her out here…_for this?_

He was beyond irritated and he felt his jaw clench. "Sybil, I don't have time for this, so if that's what this is all about—"

Just as Cora had done earlier, Sybil began to laugh. And just like Cora, her laugh was anything but humorous. "Oh no, no, Papa; that is _not_ what this is all about—that is just the tip of the iceberg." She folded her arms across her chest, a gesture that caused the slight bulge of her belly to become more "pronounced", and Robert found himself adverting his eyes; as much as he disliked her marriage, he didn't want his true emotions to show when it came to her baby.

"Sybil…" he began with a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the wall just next to her head. "It's your sister's wedding day—"

"I'm well aware of that, Papa," Sybil retorted, purposefully moving her head so he would be forced to meet her eyes. "Why did you think I asked you to speak with me out here?"

"I don't know, Sybil, because you refuse to be straight forward and instead insist on playing these mind games," he retorted back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, feeling a strong headache coming on.

A moment of silence filled the hall, and Robert groaned as he caught the shocked expression on his daughter's face…only to see the rage that he knew was brewing beneath, begin to surface, like a dragon lying in wait.

"Alright," she replied, her voice cold and slow. "I will be very straight forward."

Why did that fill him with foreboding?

"Ever since we arrived…you have done everything in your power to make us feel unwelcome."

Robert stared at Sybil with wide eyes. Did she just accuse him…? Yes, yes, she had.

"On the first day, you wouldn't even look Tom in the eye, let alone shake his hand—"

"I was perfectly civil to him!" he argued, feeling very defensive. Why, why was it he was always made out to be the villain in these things? "Did I refuse him entrance? No. Did I argue about…about the two of you…" he didn't want to dwell on the subject that he had (reluctantly) agreed to letting them share a room, when he and Cora were making arrangements before their arrival. "Did I force him back downstairs to take his meals? No; I didn't even deny him the opportunity to stay with Matthew and myself after dinner! I have treated him fairly, and—"

"Fairly!" Sybil gasped, her face flushed with anger. "You call that fair? You call rolling your eyes at him while he's speaking, or provoking him on subjects you know he feels passionate about or disagrees with—"

"Oh I'm sorry, do you want me to lie and put on a smile when I don't see eye to eye with him? When I disagree completely with some of these philosophers that he praises? When I read stories about good British soldiers, trying to keep the peace, being shot in the back by Irish terrorists—you want me to just sit there and let him ramble on, pretending to agree with him? Isn't _that_ more disrespectful?" he challenged with a bit of a snarl. "But it's perfectly alright for him to lose his temper and disagree with me—"

"Of course it isn't!" Sybil snapped. "Do you think I enjoy watching my father and my husband, argue with one another? I hate it!" her voice was filled with such venom that it caused Robert to stumble back a little. "But do _you_ try, Papa? Because despite what you think, Tom _does_ try. Trust me, he didn't sit and plot on our journey to Downton, 'how can I make my father-in-law miserable?'" Robert couldn't help but wince slightly at that now familial reminder. "Tom and I have had many 'extensive' discussions on what to do should a disagreement arise! He's not stupid, Papa, he knows that the two of you don't see eye to eye on many things—" Robert made a scoffing laugh, which naturally earned him a glare from his daughter, but she chose to ignore it and continue with her lecture. "—And despite what you may think, he wasn't planning on bringing anything up that could lead to arguments! But you provoked him—"

"_I_ provoked him?"

"Yes!" Sybil continued. "And Granny, for that matter; you didn't try to stop her—"

"Do you know _anyone_ who can reign in your grandmother?" Robert groaned, his head now pounding.

"But you don't have to agree with her or put up with _everything_ she says," Sybil snapped, before shaking her head and turning away. Robert watched her posture and could see that some of the anger that had been fueling her words was slowly beginning to dissolve. Yet she still looked rigid and tense, he noticed with a painful heart, how she would reach up and wipe at her cheeks. "I don't understand you, Papa; with the exception of Granny, everyone…everyone has _tried_, in some form. Mama, Edith, Matthew…even Mary," she murmured, before wiping her cheeks once more, and turning to face him. Robert felt the air leave his lungs at the image of his daughter…his little girl…gazing up at him, the blue in her eyes shining brightly from the tears that swum in their depths. "But it was _you_ who stood before me and gave me—gave _us_, your blessing."

He sighed and pursed his lips. Lord, how he remembered that day, and not simply because it had been Lavinia's funeral. He remembered bristling at the sight of Branson, and when he had demanded to know why the chauffeur had come, he was quick to correct him when he spoke Sybil's name in such a…familiar…way. _As a husband refers to his wife…or as a parent refers to his child._ He remembered standing there, making that correction, insisting that she was not simply "Sybil" but "_Lady_ Sybil".

…And he remembered how it felt, when Sybil replied, _"Papa, what's the sense in all that nonsense?"_

Nonsense? Was that how she saw it? Was it more than just her title? Did she see their life as nonsense? This world in which she was born and raised, this life in which he had worked so hard to keep afloat, even while friends and neighbors around him were struggling or failing to do just that…

Was it all just a load of…nonsense to her?

The days between her revelation that she and Branson were intending to be married, to when she left, were filled with many heated arguments. And in the midst of those arguments, many harsh things were said; things that were meant to hurt the other, to shame the other, to prove to the other that they were in the right.

But none of those things hurt as deeply…as when she had murmured that single word, "nonsense."

At that moment what else could he do but let her go? As he had said to his mother, she was determined to leave…what was the point of leaving in anger? And yet, there was still pain. And the distance had done very little to soothe that pain.

"What do you want me to say, Sybil?" he asked, feeling worn out and helpless from all this. "Do you want me to apologize for not standing there on the threshold of my own house, a house and life that I have worked so hard for, and one that I know his beliefs reject entirely…and not dash forward to embrace him? To welcome him into that very house, where my youngest daughter grew up, where she played, where she learned—before he took her away from me? And not just to a life where she lives in poverty, but to a world that's violent and dangerous, especially to a woman with an English accent! Is that what you want, Sybil?" he paused, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths from his impassioned words.

She stared up at him, her face a mix of so many emotions, that it was impossible to read. Save for pain, because the pain he saw in her tear-filled eyes was the same pain that he felt in his tired heart.

Now what? Should he say something? A part of him felt utterly wretched for yelling at her as he had. Seeing her, standing there, ready to cry—what sort of monster was he? They hadn't embraced since that day she arrived, and his arms longed to hold her now, to…to comfort his little girl. But another part of him was glad for what he had said, even if it upset her so. She needed to know how he felt—_really_ felt—about her marriage to the chauffeur. She needed to know that he was in pain, too.

Sybil took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, closed it…and then opened it again. "That's why you didn't come to the wedding…" she whispered.

Robert was somewhat taken aback by her words. He wasn't sure what he expected her to say, but it hadn't been this. Everything Cora had said not very long ago flooded his mind again…

_"Robert…there are few things I regret in life, and I mean that, truly. But…one thing I regret…and that I struggle with forgiving myself…is…is not being there for her, on her wedding day."_

"It's a wonder you invited us at all, really…" Sybil continued, interrupting his memory. Robert looked at her and felt his throat go dry at the bitter sadness he saw on his daughter's face. The tears that had been swimming in her eyes were now dripping down her cheeks, but unlike before, she made no effort to wipe them away. "But I suppose that was Mama's idea; after all, she was the one who wrote to tell me of the engagement—she, and Mary and Edith, are the ones who have been keeping correspondence with me…while every so often telling me, in _their_ words, 'Papa sends his love'."

He winced at her words. They cut to the core.

"…Well, not to worry, Papa," she murmured, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. "Your disappointing daughter and her trouble-making husband will be out of your hair soon enough; you and this house which you love so much will be left in peace, once more."

Robert's eyes widened and he reached out and grabbed her arm, staring at her with disbelieving eyes. "You're leaving?"

"Yes," Sybil snapped, shaking her arm from his grip. "The day after tomorrow—don't worry, Papa, I won't cause you any further scandal, and I won't take away anything from Mary; after all, it is her wedding day, and I know all too well how special a day that can be."

The remark cut through the air like a slap to the face. No doubt that was her intention.

He felt his spine stiffen once more, and he released her arm and folded his hands behind his back, as if once more trying to resume that stern, superior stature he once had as a father, when scolding his daughters for misbehaving. Of course…then, they were knee-high to a grasshopper; it was much harder to look this way when they were fully grown.

"So…it's to be like that, is it?" he asked, his own voice cold and bitter.

"Like what, Papa?" she replied, sounding just as tired as he felt inside.

"Don't be smart with me, you know exactly what I mean," he grumbled. "Whatever happened to 'parting as friends'?"

Sybil's eyes widened and she took a step towards him, until her face was only a few inches away and her fingers were jabbing into his chest. "How dare you, Papa, how dare you!" she hissed. "You dare to throw those words back at me…when you clearly refuse to abide by them, yourself?" He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued. "Believe it or not, I am NOT trying to take sides! I love my family, and yes, I even love Downton! But I love Tom and my life in Dublin as well! I love working, I love helping people! I have met so many good, wonderful people, both Irish and English! And I have met nasty, horrible people, some of whom are Irish Republicans and some who are British soldiers! I want equality, I want justice, but most of all…I want peace! And not just peace between the Irish and the British, but peace within my own family! YES, I _WANTED_ to part as friends! And I thought that when you gave us your blessing, that was a sign! But…but you _never_ wrote to me, Papa! All those words of affection that I heard were never written by _your_ _own_ hand! And then when you refused to come to the wedding…" she paused to choke back the sobs that were threatening to explode. "Do you know what it was like…to stand there today, and see you look up at Mary as she descended those stairs? DO YOU? The way you looked at her—the perfect Crawley daughter, the one who will never disappoint _the way I do…"_ she paused and turned her head, fumbling for her handkerchief and blowing her nose. She took several deep breaths, as if she were gulping for air. "…I know you disapprove of my choice. I know that Matthew will always have your favor over Tom. And…and I accept that, as much as that hurts to admit," she took another deep breath, and then turned her eyes back to him. "But…but you _never tried_, Papa. You never tried to 'be friends', and I don't just mean with Tom…but with me, too."

Robert stared wide-eyed at Sybil, utterly speechless. What could he say? Did he even dare to speak? He wasn't sure he trusted his own voice…or if he even had one.

Sybil blew her nose a second time, and then wiped her cheeks clean. Her eyes were puffy and red from the tears. Images of a little girl, coming in and crying after falling out of a tree that her mother and grandmother and governess had repeatedly told her _not_ to climb, suddenly washed back.

_She burst into his library, a nasty tear in her stockings, a nastier red gash on her knee, and a face covered in dirt and tears. Mrs. Hughes came running after her, begging his pardon the entire time, but Robert lifted a silencing hand, and then bent down to scoop the crying child up, cuddling her against his chest as she wept and told him about her tumble. He carried her down to the kitchens himself, and held her hand while Mrs. Hughes put a stinging balm on her knee. He then sat in a chair, and with her still on his lap, and asked Mrs. Patmore to make them each a cup of hot chocolate, which brought a smile to his youngest daughter's face, while he took his own handkerchief out to wipe away the dirt and tears._

_ It wasn't the first tearful scrape, nor had it been the last. But he was there to mend every one, and always gave a kiss on the forehead afterward._

So how did he mend this scrape? Especially since…he was the cause for it?

"You know…when Tom first proposed to me, he promised…no, he _reassured_ me that you would come around, to the idea of my marriage to him."

Robert's brow furrowed at her words. _First_ proposal?

"…And I said no. Well, I didn't say the actual word 'no', but…I didn't say 'yes', either. But that wasn't because I didn't love him; because I did…I've loved him for…for years; long before that proposal. And it wasn't because I was afraid what a marriage to him would be like; I didn't fear living in a world that was vastly different from Downton; after my time in York, I discovered how…simply, I could live. And how happy I could be, working in a job, day to day. No…the reason I didn't accept him, even though my heart yearned for me to say yes…was because I didn't believe him, when he told me you would eventually come around."

Her eyes penetrated his, and Robert suddenly felt as if he were looking up at her; that their roles were reversed, and she was the parent and he was the child.

"He had such faith, though, Papa. In fact, you may be surprised to know that he's been your strongest advocate in this!"

Robert stared blankly. What on earth…?

"Did you notice how late he and I were to the wedding? I had locked myself in a room, feeling sorry for myself, but Tom found me. I was upset because…because you and Mama weren't there for my wedding," she paused and looked down at her feet. "And I told Tom that…that I was jealous of Mary, because of the way you looked at her…and how I would never know what that was like."

"Sybil—"

"But he told me I was wrong."

Robert was taken aback, again, by his daughter's words; both for the pain in which she spoke, and for this sudden revelation that Branson had, more or less, spoken up for him.

"Tom told me that it wasn't true…that you had—have—looked upon me with…with pride and admiration," she laughed then, but it was not a laugh born of happiness. There was sadness, bitterness, and disbelief in her laugh, and it broke his heart to hear it. "He amazes me sometimes, the way he'll defend you…"

Robert looked at her with a mix of confusion, apprehension, and surprise. "Defends me?"

She nodded her head. "Yes…whenever he's talking to other journalists, or family members or friends; whenever complaints are made about the aristocracy and British oppression, he is always quick to say how he wishes that more of them 'could be like Lord Grantham'—and they naturally mock him, thinking he's just saying that because you're my father, but he is quick to say he thought that the first day he met you—that you're a fair man, a decent employer…and that you try, to do the right thing by the people who depend on you…"

Robert was completely stunned. He assumed that the ex-chauffeur would complain about him whenever he had the chance! That he was made the butt of all the jokes between Branson and his Irish Republican friends. That the reasons for Sybil's anger towards him were _because_ of her husband, that Branson was trying to turn her against him and her family!

But to hear this, to learn this…even though a bitter part of himself wanted to deny it and say that his daughter was lying, trying to paint a pretty picture of her rebellious husband…he knew it was true.

"I've always admired his passion, his faith in humanity," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself, as if she were channeling her husband's arms. "He truly believes that in the end, people will do what is right, that justice will prevail," she chuckled to herself, but once again, it was a sad chuckle. "I wanted to believe what he said, about you…about you coming around and accepting us…" she held his gaze for a long second, and then slowly began to shake her head. "But I know the truth now."

She began to move away, and Robert tried to reach out for her. "Sybil, please, I—"

"Sybil?"

Robert turned and bit back the curse in his throat as his eyes met those of the very man to whom they had been speaking about. Branson held his gaze for a brief moment, the emotion in his eyes unreadable, but then the younger man's gaze shifted to his daughter, who came around him and quickly moved to his side.

"Are you alright, love? You've been gone for—"

"Yes, I'm fine," she put on a smile and despite Robert standing there, stood on her tip toes and gave her husband a kiss on the mouth.

Robert's first urge was to groan and roll his eyes, but he had done enough of that today. Branson was stiff and didn't relax, nor did he close his eyes to enjoy the kiss. He kept looking back at Robert, and then down at his wife. "Sybil, are you—"

"Dance with me, Tom?" she asked, already taking his hand and leading him back into the ballroom. "I feel like dancing, please."

He glanced once more at Robert, his expression still unreadable, and then turned to follow Sybil back into the ballroom.

Robert remained where he stood, his head throbbing, but not just from the aching pain that filled it. Never, had he imagined Mary's wedding day to be like this…

Oh who was he fooling? Never, had he imagined _his life_…to be like this!

* * *

_Don't worry! There *will* be a 4th chapter (and it will be the final chapter too)-I did promise to finish this before the DAS3 debute on Sunday, which means I have till 8pm UK time (2pm my time) :oP to do just that! So stay tuned, because sometime between now and then...I will post that puppy!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Ok, I lied, it's going to be a *5 Chapter* story. I'm sorry, I tried to keep it contained to 4, but this bit got so big (and the time was catching up so quickly!) that I realized I would have to split it. FORGIVE ME? :o( _

_I wish I could say that Chapter 5 (which *should* be a little shorter compared to the rest of these) would be finished in time before S3 starts, but I doubt that will be possible...so I hope you can read this and find it lovely and satisfactory, and *perhaps* when the episode is over, you can come back and *just maybe* find the 5th chapter. Otherwise, it will there Monday morning (unless you're on my side of the pond, which means it will be there later this evening) :oP_

_This chapter is *heavily* Tom/Robert. It was a tough one to write too, but in the end, I'm happy with it, and I hope you will be as well! SO HAPPY DOWNTON ABBEY SERIES 3 UK (and other countries who are blessed to have it tonight)...hang in there everyone else! OUR TIME WILL COME! And of course, there's always the internet :oP ;o)_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

It had been several hours since his "conversation" with Sybil, and several hours since his blasted headache came on. And despite all the remedies Mrs. Patmore knew, the damn ache seemed determined to remain.

He sat now in his library, away from anyone who might still be awake, although he doubted it. It was very late, well past midnight, he had no doubt. Mary and Matthew had retreated to their honeymoon suite as soon as the last guest had left. Edith had gone outside to say her goodbyes to Sir Anthony Strallen, only to return with a blissful smile on her face before retiring. His sister had gone back to the Dower House with his mother, and heaven knew where Martha was. Last he saw, she was still dancing, even when the quartet was packing up to leave! As for Cora, she was in their room, trying to read, even though there was a concerned expression written across her face. No doubt she wanted to know what had happened between him and Sybil. After the confrontation, Sybil had returned with Branson to the ballroom, and he hadn't seen her since. No doubt she was in her own room, and while he had contemplated going to her door and knocking, he stopped himself when he realized…he had no idea what to say. He still had no idea! Everything she had said had completely stunned him, and all the different emotions that were flooding his heart left him utterly speechless. So instead of telling his wife what had occurred, he murmured something about having a headache, and thought perhaps a brandy would help, and told Cora to not bother waiting up for him, and thus retreated to the library, where he sat now with a brandy in hand and Isis at his feet.

The day had hardly been what he had hoped for.

The wedding was wonderful, no denying that. Mary looked so happy and so lovely, and Matthew couldn't stop smiling. They danced, they laughed, they spoke with every guest, and everyone murmured that it truly had been the loveliest of weddings, congratulating Robert on a fine occasion, as if he had anything to do with it.

But as the guests disappeared bit by bit, and murmured these words to him, telling him he must be so proud…he felt as if with every handshake and every compliment he were being stabbed repeatedly in the heart.

The day had been wonderful—for Mary and Matthew. And for everyone else too, it seemed. Save…a tiny few. And he was in the middle of that few.

He groaned and took another drink from his glass. It wasn't his celebration, and yet he couldn't deny he felt upset that he was unable to enjoy it after his confrontation with Sybil.

_But who's __really__ to blame?_

Isis seemed to read his mind and looked up at him with her large, unblinking brown eyes. Robert groaned again and turned away from the dog; she was judging him too.

_"Do you know what it was like…to stand there today, and see you look up at Mary as she descended those stairs? DO YOU? The way you looked at her—the perfect Crawley daughter, the one who will never disappoint __the way I do…"_

Robert closed his eyes, wishing he could block out those painful words, just as much as he wished he could block out all those compliments for being a proud father.

To every well wish, he nodded his head and put on a smile, a rather forced smile, but inside he felt like screaming, _"But I'm not a proud father…I'm quite the opposite."_

"_I __WANTED__ to part as friends! And I thought that when you gave us your blessing, that was a sign! But…but you __never__ wrote to me, Papa! All those words of affection that I heard were never written by __your__own__ hand!"_

He took another deep drink, wishing that the brandy could take away the pain, both the throb in his head and the ache in his heart. Instead, he heard his wife's voice, whose fears were confirmed by Sybil's harsh words.

_"You see a stubborn girl who wants to do nothing but challenge and rebel against you. But if you get past all that, you will also see a woman who…who sat by my side at her sister's wedding, watching her father walk her sister down that aisle, and stand by while the vicar asked 'who presents this woman'…and whose cheeks were stained with tears, and not all out of loving, sisterly happiness, I'm afraid."_

He hadn't said the words, but he did imply that the whole reason they didn't come to the wedding was because he was hurt by what felt like his daughter's rejection to the life he had worked so hard to give her. Oh God, he had done the most foolish thing a man could do; he was hurt…so to show her that he was hurt…he ended up hurting her too.

Perhaps Cora was right?

"…_you two are more alike than you realize. You both can be pig-headed and stubborn to a fault; you both struggle to admit when you're wrong, and you both erupt like volcanoes when it comes to something you feel passionate about."_

No truer words were spoken. Indeed, both he and Sybil had had their own "Great War", there, in the hall outside the ballroom. But there was no victor to this war; just wounded souls.

Isis' head suddenly rose from the floor and she locked her eyes on the door behind him. Robert turned his ear and heard the door softly creak open. Surely it wasn't Thomas? He had told his new valet that he needn't wait for him. Was it Carson? "I'm perfectly fine, Carson, please…don't wait up on my account."

"It's me…your Lordship."

Robert's eyes went wide at the Irish accent that filled his ears. He quickly rose from his chair and turned to face him, hardly believing that of all people, Branson, his ex-chauffeur, was standing there, half in the hallway, half in the library, as if he were waiting for a welcome invitation…or to make a run for it, should Robert sic the dog on him.

The idea did pass Robert's mind; although Isis' only flaw was that she loved everyone, and would sooner go to Branson for a pat on the head than a bite of his hand. Indeed, the traitorous Labrador was doing just that, walking over to Branson's side with a friendly wag of her tail, bumping her head beneath his hand, demanding a pet. _Man's best friend, indeed_.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice a little harsher than he had intended, but his head was pounding and he was emotionally exhausted. So whatever the man had come to discuss, he preferred to get it over with so he could go back to nursing his brandy in peace.

Branson stiffened a little at his former employer's tone, but took a deep breath and stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind him. "Forgive my intrusion, milord," he murmured with a very stiff bow. Robert couldn't help finding the entire charade amusing; even though the two of them had had it out, throwing various insults at one another, Branson was still bowing and speaking as an employee to an employer. Which was just as well—Robert doubted he would ever see his son-in-law as anything other than his former chauffeur.

"I was asked to give her Ladyship and Sybil some privacy," he explained.

Robert's brow furrowed at the younger man's words. "Cora is with Sybil?"

Branson nodded his head. "Aye, milord. She wished to speak with Sybil, in private…and told me that I could find you here."

First Isis, now Cora. It seemed everyone was determined to throw the two of them together.

"I see," he replied rather stiffly. Now what? Were they to converse about the weather? Because what other topics were there that they could discuss without launching into an argument?

"Well—"

"Yes—"

Another uncomfortable pause filled the room, and Robert was suddenly taken back to earlier in the day, when Cora more or less forced he and Sybil to dance, and they too stood like this, speaking at the same time, only to fall into further awkwardness.

"It was a beautiful wedding."

Robert looked up and saw Branson force a small smile, before stuffing his hands in his pockets. As his chauffeur, the man would never make such an unprofessional gesture—but then again, as his chauffeur, the man would never have married his daughter in the first place.

"It was," Robert murmured in agreement. His eyes narrowed slightly; had Sybil told him what had transpired in the hall? Did Branson know what was spoken? Was his remark about the wedding meant to be an angry accusation because he…

…Because he didn't attend their own?

_"We would be horrible parents, if we did not see and acknowledge that our daughter is in pain, too."_

"I suppose…you know that we will be leaving…the day after tomorrow…"

Robert looked up, his memory of Cora's words interrupted by Branson's. He felt cold, very cold. But he knew the sudden chill had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

"Yes…" he murmured, looking down at his desk. "I had heard."

Branson nodded his head, his own eyes wandering around the room, looking anywhere but at Robert. Robert studied the younger man for a moment; he looked so different…ironically younger, even though it had been seven years since he first walked into his library after being hired. Memories of that first meeting flooded back to Robert's mind; he recalled finding the chauffeur a "breath of fresh air" after Taylor, and when the man—boy, really, for he was only a year or two older than Mary—told him about his interest in history and politics, Robert found that both fascinating as well as uniquely endearing. Little did he know what he was getting into; the incident in Ripon should have been warning enough, especially when Sybil defended Branson so passionately!

_I was given a glimpse of things to come, and yet I ignored it._ Perhaps he had been directing his anger in the wrong place? Maybe it wasn't Branson's fault that Sybil had run away to Ireland…but his?

"Do you still read?"

Robert was just as surprised as Branson when the question was uttered. He didn't even realize he had spoken until the younger man turned to look at him with surprise.

"I…I do, milord," he answered, with a small nod of his head. "Whenever I have the chance…which is sadly rarer than I wish it." He gave a small smile, and then turned his eyes away again, this time looking down on the ground.

Robert didn't know what else to say either. The truth was this was all horribly awkward, made even more so after his confrontation with Sybil. He understood that Cora wanted to have a private moment with Sybil, but…why send Branson down to the library? What had she been hoping to accomplish? That they would patch everything up and embrace as father and son? That thought alone had Robert reaching for the decanter to pour himself another brandy.

No sooner had he topped off his glass, than he noticed Branson moving towards him. Robert froze, his eyes widening. Was he going to punch him? Shout at him? Attack him in some other way that he had not conceived?

"I…I did have a reason, for coming," Branson explained, stopping just short of the desk and digging into an inner pocket on his waistcoat. Robert remained standing, grateful for the desk that kept them separated, but curious as well as to what the other man was talking about. Finally, Branson found the object he was seeking…a flat piece of paper? No…no, it wasn't paper, but it was something small and flat…

Branson looked down at the item, a smile spreading across his face, one that Robert could only describe as…tender. Then, Branson lifted his head, looked him straight in the eye, and reached across the desk to hand him the object. And that was when Robert realized what it was…

A photograph.

A photograph…of Sybil. In her wedding gown.

Thank heaven his chair was nearby, because Robert felt his knees give way beneath him, and he was sinking down into it, as he took the photograph with trembling fingers, and stared at the image of his youngest, standing and smiling in her wedding dress.

It was simple gown; there was some lace on the trim and at the collar, but other than that, it lacked any fancy decoration. The veil she wore was simple too, certainly nothing like either of the fancy veils he had bought for Mary. But it didn't matter, because what really drew the eye was her face…and how broadly she was smiling. She held a small bouquet, her fingers gripping the flowers tightly, as she gazed at the camera, her eyes sparkling and her face…glowing. Yes, even though it was a simple photograph, her face was radiantly glowing. He had never seen her look so happy…or more beautiful…

Something wet hit the photo, and Robert only realized then that the droplet had come from his own eye.

"Sybil brought it," he heard Branson explain. "We have several others—"

"Others?" Robert asked, looking up at his son-in-law with damp, curious eyes.

Branson nodded his head. "Other photos, from the wedding," he quickly explained. "She wanted…she wanted you to have them…" he didn't finish the sentence, but Robert knew there was no need to. She had brought them these pictures because…they hadn't come to the wedding.

"She never mentioned them…" Robert all but whispered, looking down at the photograph once more, his fingers running across it in reverence.

"No…" Branson murmured. "I…I think with all the excitement and preparations for Lady Mary's wedding, she forgot about them."

He was making an excuse, Robert could see that. But he knew the truth; she had been planning on showing him the photographs before their arrival, but after everything that had happened, and especially after the incident earlier today, she no doubt would have returned to Ireland…without showing any of those pictures.

"Anyway, I thought…I thought you should see them," Branson explained. "Or at least, see her."

In her wedding dress…

Robert couldn't lift his eyes away from the photo. For the second time that day, he found himself gazing upon a bride, a bride who looked so beautiful that he wasn't sure he could breathe.

"Right…" Branson murmured, before moving away from the desk. "Well…I'll leave you now, milord. Goodnight…"

Branson then turned his back on him and was just about to leave the library, when Robert lifted his head and called out to him. "Branson, wait!"

Branson paused and slowly turned back, a question in his eyes, but no word from his lips. On shaky legs, Robert rose from his chair, his palms suddenly sweaty and his mind racing in trying to think of things to say. "Please…stay…for a moment," was what he managed to speak.

Branson swallowed and looked at a chair to which Robert was gesturing towards. He looked…unsure, as if this whole situation was a trap. But Robert's eyes pleaded, and Branson gave a small nod of his head, before reentering the library and taking the seat Robert had offered. "Thank you, milord," he whispered.

_Now what?_ Robert was at an utter loss. He wasn't sure what he was going to say…he just knew that, ironically, he didn't want the chauffeur to leave. Not yet, at least.

"I…I uh…" he stammered, trying to think of what to do or say. His eyes landed on the brandy glass. "Would you care for a brandy?"

Branson shook his head. "Thank you, milord, but no."

"Right…right…" Robert murmured, even though he didn't know why he was saying that. Should he sit? He didn't think he could sit still, and if truth be told, he felt like pacing, but doing so would only make his son-in-law's obvious discomfort continue to grow. He compromised by leaning against his desk, yet he regretted it immediately for while it looked "casual", surely something that Branson and his non-traditional friends preferred…it still looked…superior. He, Robert, the Lord of the Land, preparing to lecture his former servant. In the end, he moved back to his chair.

"You um…you said you had other photographs?"

Branson nodded his head. "They're upstairs, in a suitcase…only four more," he explained. There was a bit of an awkward pause. "I…I didn't think you would…" his voice trailed off, and Robert frowned in confusion.

"Didn't think I would…?"

Branson looked down for a moment, sighed, and then lifted his eyes once more. "I brought you this one," he indicated to the photo Robert was still preciously holding, "because it's a picture of Sybil."

Robert was still confused. "She's not in the others?"

"Oh no, she is, it's just…" Branson sighed once more, before continuing. "The others aren't just pictures of…of her."

He understood now. "You mean…they're pictures of the both of you…together."

Branson nodded his head. "Yes, milord."

Not so very long ago, such a photo would be the last thing Robert would want to see. A permanent, tangible reminder, of the life his daughter had chosen. And yet…now, looking down at her smiling face, a smile that he hadn't seen in…such a long time…Robert yearned to see every smile he could, every beautiful, happy, radiant smile, that only a woman like Sybil could display. "I would like to see them…" Robert murmured, blinking back the tears that were beginning to cloud his vision.

Branson nodded his head again, but Robert was able to catch a tiny smile at the corner of the man's mouth. "Yes, milord. Although, I hope you don't mind waiting until morning?"

He did mind, actually, but he knew Branson was right. He had no idea how long Cora and Sybil would be talking, but it was very late, and he was sure that as soon as Cora left, Sybil would be asleep, which was no time to go rummaging through a suitcase to find the extra photographs. "Yes, that is fine," he whispered, taking one more, heart-wrenching look at Sybil's smiling face.

Branson was watching him, he could feel the younger man's eyes on him, but he didn't care. "She looks stunning," he whispered, not realizing he had spoken until the words came out.

Branson smiled. "Aye, she does." Robert lifted his eyes and met the gaze of his son-in-law, whose own eyes were shining with admiration as he looked down at the same photograph. "Those were the very words I was thinking, when I saw her come down the aisle…"

That icy feeling that Robert had felt earlier seemed to take hold of him once again, a mixture of his wife's and daughter's words began to dance around in his head.

"_But…one thing I regret…and that I struggle with forgiving myself…is…is not being there for her, on her wedding day."_

_"Do you know what it was like…to stand there today, and see you look up at Mary as she descended those stairs? DO YOU? The way you looked at her—the perfect Crawley daughter, the one who will never disappoint __the way I do…"_

_"I know, I know, we were upset, we were hurt, we didn't know how to handle the scandal that well, but…we __still__ should have gone, Robert."_

_"…I know you disapprove of my choice. I know that Matthew will always have your favor over Tom. And…and I accept that, as much as that hurts to admit…but you __never tried__, Papa."_

"Milord?"

Robert looked up, surprised by Branson's voice breaking through the din that was roaring in his head. The younger man had risen from his chair and was leaning over the desk, one hand outstretched and touching his shoulder, his eyes wide with concern. "Milord, are you alright?"

Branson's concerned expression changed to one of horror, as Robert began laughing! But just as both Cora and Sybil had laughed before him earlier, it was not a laugh of amusement. Of all the people to stand over him now, to look concerned for his wellbeing, was the man whom Robert had made no qualm in disliking or, as much as it shamed him to admit, disrespecting.

_"He amazes me sometimes, the way he'll defend you…" _His daughter's words rang loud and clear. _"You never tried, Papa. You never tried to 'be friends'."_

Even now, when Branson had first come into the library, Robert had more or less barked at him, demanding to know why he had invaded his sanctuary. Even then, he hadn't "tried" to be civil, to "be friends". And yet the man came with what some could consider a peace offering…and something Robert knew he would deeply treasure for the rest of his life…even if it would always remind of his sins.

Poor Branson looked completely unsure of what to do. Finally, he rose and began to move towards the door. "I'll go fetch Mr. Carson—"

"No, no, Tom, please, that won't be necessary…"

Branson froze…as did Robert, when he realized what he had just said. _Tom…_

The younger man turned back and looked at him, still trying to assess if he truly was alright…as well as digest what he had been called. It was the first time since their arrival, that Robert had called him by that name.

"I…I apologize," Robert mumbled, looking down at the ground and feeling a bit silly for his laughter. "I…I just…" what could he say? _I found it amusing that you would look so concerned for me, when not an hour ago, I assumed you of all people would like to see me lying in my grave? I found it amusing that you would purposefully come to me, offering me this picture and possibly showing me others, a constant reminder that my daughter married a man I didn't approve of? I find it most amusing that you of all people, according to my daughter, defend me to the very men to whose politics and philosophies you agree with, even though I am the very picture of everything you can't stand?_

"Did Sybil tell you about…our argument?" Branson's eyes widened and Robert couldn't blame him for being taken aback by the question. He had shocked himself for bringing it up! Not to mention for using the word "argument"…but then, why bother trying to hide what it truly was? A spade's a spade, his mother would sometimes say.

Branson paused for a moment, as if trying to think about how to approach the question, but in the end, he gave a sigh before meeting Robert's eyes. "She did, milord."

"I see…" Robert murmured. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the truth, but he asked anyway. "What did she…what did she tell you?"

Branson looked equally uncomfortable, but he didn't try to make excuses. "She said…she said she told you about what had happened earlier today; before the wedding."

_"Did you notice how late he and I were to the wedding? I had locked myself in a room, feeling sorry for myself, but Tom found me. I was upset because…because you and Mama weren't there for my wedding. And I told Tom that…that I was jealous of Mary, because of the way you looked at her…and how I would never know what that was like."_

Robert swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat, and felt his palms ball into fists. He remembered standing next to Carson, and gazing up at Mary in awe and amazement. He hadn't realized Sybil was standing nearby, watching. The thought had never occurred to him how that might look to her…or the effect it would have on her.

"I understand she was very upset," he murmured, more to himself than to his son-in-law. Ah, the British; known for their understatements.

"Aye," Branson murmured back, shifting his weight back and forth in what could only be described as an uncomfortable gesture.

Robert gave a sad smile. "It seems I have been doing that a great deal, lately."

Branson frowned. "I'm sorry?"

Robert sighed and looked at his son-in-law. "Apparently I bring her nothing but heartache and misery." Branson stared at him and blinked for a few seconds, then opened his mouth, but Robert put up a silencing hand. "Please…if you're going to defend me, I wish you wouldn't. And if you're going to damn me, well…I still wish you wouldn't. I can do enough of that on my own."

"Yes, milord." Robert had to smile at that.

"You, on the other hand," Robert went on, returning to his desk and taking a drink from his brandy glass. "Can do no wrong, it seems."

Branson frowned at this. "I wouldn't say that, milord."

"Nor would I," Robert sighed, taking another drink. "But according to my daughter, whatever your shortcomings may be, they are nothing compared to the joy and happiness she now feels, both with you, and the life you have made together."

Branson stared at him, unsure what to say, so he simply kept his mouth closed.

"My wife seems to have a similar understanding," Robert continued. "She told me that she has noticed how…how happy, you make our daughter. That she has never seen her look so happy…" he paused to finish the brandy in his glass. "And when I look at this photograph, I can't help but see the evidence to which she speaks."

Branson's eyes shifted to the ground, but Robert could just make out a small flush to the younger man's cheeks.

"I know that…the last time you and I spoke, alone like this, it was in a room at the Grantham Arms, and I had come with hopes to…to bribe you to leave our lives for good."

Branson nodded his head, clearly remembering that day, just as well. "Aye," he simply answered.

Robert moved back to his chair and sat down. "I was so convinced that…that you only wanted her for money," he sighed. "After all, when you hear stories like this, it usually revolves around money. So I was so sure that I could do that, I could give you the money you wanted, and that would be the end of it." He looked up at Branson, who was still standing, but the younger man said nothing. Just like earlier, his face was unreadable. "But, I soon came to realize, much to my greater horror…that it wasn't about money at all…"

"No," Branson murmured.

Robert nodded his head. "And then I was truly baffled. Because…she left with you, back to Ireland. And I thought…it's only a matter of time. She tells me she cares nothing for the life she had here, but the reality of what she's entering will be much harsher than she thinks…" He noticed Branson stiffen a bit, but he kept his mouth closed and continued to listen. "So I waited," Robert went on. "I waited for the letter, for the 'cry for help' to come and rescue her and bring her home…" He watched his son-in-law as he said this, but the man still didn't say anything, he merely gazed back at Robert, his jaw clenched and his hands behind his back. "Of course…it never came. When her sisters came back from the wedding, I didn't want to hear anything about it. All I wanted to know was…how was she? And they told me she seemed happy…but I believed it was all a ruse, she was just putting that on for her sisters' benefit. Then the letter came at Christmas, announcing…" Robert paused and looked down at the photo, still lying atop his desk. "Announcing our grandchild…"

Branson, who had been standing across from him this whole time, and whose face looked to be carved out of stone for the lack of expression, suddenly changed. His eyes widened at Robert's words…and Robert swore he caught a hint of a smile. Indeed…it was also the first time Robert had referred to Sybil's baby as _his_ grandchild, without a touch or sarcasm or disdain.

"I realized then…that she wasn't coming back. That this was wasn't some passing fancy, or a mere act of belated adolescent rebellion. This was her choice…she wanted this, a life in Dublin, a life as a nurse, a life…with _you_, no matter how hard the circumstances would be..." he paused to swallow the lump in his throat, feeling the sob that was forming and making it hard to speak. "And I felt…I confess, it felt like rejection," he sighed, lifting his eyes briefly to Branson's before lowering them for fear the tears would show. "Everything I had built and everything I had strived to do, to provide for her…none of it mattered. And therefore, I felt _I_ didn't matter—"

He had to stop because the sob had burst, and Robert turned his face away, his fist rising to his mouth as if he could bite on it to keep any further sobs at bay. He could feel his son-in-law's eyes on him, but he didn't care. Let him look on; the Irish rebel had triumphed, not only by winning Sybil's heart, but by conquering him, as well. He, a once great lord, and employer to many, including Tom Branson once upon a time…had been reduced to tears, before a common, working class, ex-employee. No doubt any other man would crow right now. In fact, once upon a time, Robert thought Branson was such a man. But he was slowly coming to the realization that he had been wrong…about so many things, including his "prodigal" son-in-law.

"I understand, milord…"

Robert took a deep breath, feeling he had control of himself once again, and lifted his eyes. "What?"

Branson's own eyes were also full of emotion, and Robert could see that it wasn't just sympathy, but…there was understanding; _genuine_ understanding.

"Believe me…this has not been easy," he sighed, with a bit of a chuckle. "Coming back here, I mean. It has not been easy on my ego, whatsoever. Seeing all the things I wish I could give her, but know that I can't…and probably never will…" he sighed and looked down at his feet. "Things are challenging there, no doubt about that. And while I'm grateful for…for what you have done for Sybil," he was careful with how he said this, and Robert knew Branson was talking about the small amount of money that he had promised to send to his daughter. "I must confess, milord...it doesn't feel right, taking another man's money. But please, don't worry," he quickly added, when Robert opened his mouth to protest. "That money is for Sybil, and if needs be, for the child…but I'll not touch it, milord, no offense."

Robert had to admit he found that statement amusing, too. Not so long ago he would have been very glad to hear such a statement.

"However…while it's very kind of you, I must confess…I long for the day when it will no longer be needed."

Robert looked at the man before him, standing straight and tall and shouldering a tremendous burden. He could understand that stubbornness, and he could relate to that pride. "Don't let your pride get the better of you," he warned, speaking from experience. "It's not…it's not a handout, if that's what you fear."

Branson nodded his head. "I'm aware of that, milord, I know. And I promise you, I will not allow Sybil or any children we have, to suffer."

A new kind of concern suddenly filled Robert. "That's all very good, Tom," he said the name again, amazed with how easy it had come then. "But…you have to understand _my_ concern; while…needless to say, we don't see eye to eye on this business with Ireland, I—"

"I will send her, and the baby, to Downton, if it comes to that, milord."

Robert's eyes widened at the passionate response. He could see the pain in his son-in-law's eyes for this revelation, but it wasn't because he felt embarrassed, but because he knew the dangers that were growing…and that he may have to part from his family to keep them safe. "You have my word," he further added.

Robert had to admit, he was impressed. He thought he would have to argue this point further. Then he realized it wasn't Tom to whom he would have to argue. "Is Sybil aware of this…arrangement?"

Tom sighed and Robert caught a slight roll of his eyes. "She is…but she doesn't like it," he groaned. "We've argued about it quite a bit, to be honest."

Despite the seriousness of the subject, Robert couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm sorry about that; I'm afraid that's my fault. Cora was only too kind to remind me how alike Sybil and I are; apparently her stubbornness comes from my side of the family tree."

Tom actually smiled back, before remembering the subject to which they had been talking about. "If…if need be…can I depend on you to come and take her, and the baby…if something…if something were to happen—"

Robert grasped Tom's shoulder and gave it a firm, understanding squeeze. "You have my word," he vowed, meaning every bit of it.

Tom gave a relieved smile, but still looked shaken by the prospect, as did Robert. Which was what drove him to say, "Despite everything…that's happened in your return here…" he muttered, feeling embarrassed as he recalled all the past events of the week. "That invitation, it _isn't_ exclusively reserved for Sybil and the baby…" He held Tom's gaze and a moment of understanding passed between them. "I want you to know…there will always be a place for you here…and I don't mean in the capacity of chauffeur."

Tom chuckled at this and nodded his head in thanks. "I will keep that in mind, milord. Thank you."

Robert, whose hand was still gripping Tom's shoulder, gave it one last squeeze, before releasing it. "Well…what would you say to a drink now?"

"Yes, please," Tom heartily agreed, which caused Robert to laugh as well.

He poured them each a brandy and they lifted their glasses in silent cheers. Then, they both sat down in their respective chairs, not saying anything, but the awkwardness from before had lifted, and now there seemed to be an air of peace.

But a question suddenly arose in Robert's mind, and he couldn't help it, he had to ask. "Tom…" he began, still getting used to the name. "What's this I hear about…a _first_ proposal?"

* * *

_Ok, so the 5th and final chapter will wrap up everything, and like I said, by the latest, you will have it tomorrow. Hopefully it will still be nice, even after episode 1 of S3. THANK YOU FOR READING! And thank you for following and commenting! Please leave a comment (during a commercial break or in between tumblr updates) ;o) :oP I appreciate it, thanks!_


	5. Chapter 5

_HERE IT IS! The last chapter (really) of "Father of the Bride"! Wow, these past 24 hours have been a marathon of fanfic writing; takes me back to the all-nighters I would pull in college to finish my term papers (although I would much rather write Sybil/Branson fanfic) :oP_

_HUGE THANK YOU'S to everyone for their comments and support! I'm so happy people have been enjoying this story, and I hope you find this last chapter satisfying. It's been a lot of fun (and very theraputic too!) I love hearing from readers, so please leave a comment! Thank you again for this fun "pre-"Season 3 journey, and happy Downton season 3!_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Sybil had wandered into the garden, seeking some solace after traveling to the train station with Edith and her mother to wish Mary and Matthew a safe journey before the disembarked on their honeymoon to Paris. Naturally, Mama cried, and even Edith looked a little teary-eyed, much to Sybil's surprise. She gave her sister a very fierce hug, happy for her and Matthew to finally be wed, at last.

"Write to me," Mary urged before they parted.

Sybil smiled and nodded her head. "I will, I promise. And be sure to send a postcard!"

She smiled and waved as her sister and new brother-in-law boarded their train, doing everything she could to fight back the tears. _Lord knows when I'll see her again,_ she thought. After everything that had happened the day before, Sybil doubted it would be anytime soon. She didn't suspect she and her husband would be invited back to Downton in the near future…and if truth be told, she was fine with that, as much as it broke her heart to admit.

After returning to the house, Edith was pleasantly surprised to see Sir Anthony's car pulling up to the drive. She didn't even wait for the chauffeur to let her out; she practically jumped down from the motor to greet the gentleman. Sybil smiled at her sister's enthusiasm. God willing, there would be another wedding in the near future. But her smile faded as she wondered if she would be able to see it. Her mother, ever the proper hostess, encouraged Edith and Sir Anthony to come in for some tea. She turned to Sybil, but Sybil murmured that she needed to take a walk, to get some air, her hand falling to her belly as a subtle hint. "Of course, my dear," her mother whispered with a knowing smile, and left Sybil to wander.

The gardens were her favorite part of Downton. As a child, she spent many summer days in them, running around barefoot, trying to catch grasshoppers and butterflies. On hot days she would wade into the ponds, giggling as tadpoles tickled her toes and ankles. And even though she was notorious for scraping her knees on them, she also loved to climb trees. Perhaps that was where her feminist feelings began? She remembered being told by various people, from Mrs. Hughes to her sisters that "girls shouldn't climb trees". Indeed, there was one tree in particular she had loved to climb, and without even realizing it, her feet were taking her there now. It had low branches, which made it ideal. She had promised herself, by her tenth birthday, she would reach the very top. Well, the very top was far too fragile for her to climb, but she did go as high as the branches would allow by the time she turned ten! The only problem was…now that she had climbed up there…how was she going to get back down? That was the problem; climbing up was easy, climbing down was frightening!

_Her father had found her, a few hours later. She was late for tea and Carson, along with Mrs. Hughes and several footmen had gone into the garden with hopes to find her. She didn't dare cry out to them, knowing she would be scolded for her misbehavior. There was only one person who knew about her love for climbing trees…and when she saw him pass below, along with the family dog, she hissed his name and he looked up, his eyes wide with shock, before a giant smile spread across his face._

_ "Sybil, how on earth…?"_

_"Help me down, Papa! I'm stuck!"_

_ "Stuck? But you managed to make it all the way up there—"_

_ "That was the easy part…" she looked down and clung to the branches even tighter. "Papa, please…I'm scared…"_

_ He didn't hesitate; he removed his suit jacket and hoisted himself up a few branches; however it was not as easy for him as it had been for her. "Sybil…I can't go as high as you…I'm going to need you to try and climb down a few branches—"_

_ "It's too far!" _

_ "No it's not, I'm just below you…just move your foot down a branch, like you were climbing a ladder, and then move the next one, and the next…and then I'll be able to reach you."_

_ "I'll fall!"_

_ "No you won't, I promise."_

_ "How can you promise something like that?"_

_ Her question had clearly caused her father to pause and consider what she had said. "Because…because I just won't allow it."_

_ She made him a face. "You're just saying that—"_

_ "And what if I am?" he challenged. "I know myself, Sybil. I know that I will do whatever I must, to make sure you return safely to the ground. And I know you…I know that you can do the same; I know that you can do anything, like climb this tree, if you set your mind to it. Which means I also know you can climb down those few branches, right back to me…"_

_ As he spoke, she began to do that very thing. Slowly at first, and then, bit by bit, her confidence grew. Before she knew it, she was in her father's arms, and they were back on the ground. Her mother chastised them both for their dirty appearance, but she and her father shared a secret grin. After that day, Sybil never again had a problem with climbing out of a tree._

That was a lifetime ago. She reached her tree, the very tree she had been remembering, and looked up at his branches with longing. As the library was her father's sanctuary, so had this tree been hers. She would escape to its branches as she grew up, not caring that it was unconsidered "ladylike", and lose herself for hours, reading a book, or dropping acorns on unsuspecting victims. One day she had done that to Tom, long before she had realized she was falling in love with him. She had told him to meet her by the tree, that she had a book she wanted to share, and when he arrived after finishing his chores, she plopped acorns down on his head, much to his shock and annoyance. He threatened to climb up there and drag her down for her "misconduct to his person". She simply laughed as he made the attempt, his hessians having trouble gripping the lower branches. She continued to bombard him with acorns, and finally he surrendered, waving his handkerchief as a white flag of surrender. She remembered blushing and feeling very proud of herself, as she easily climbed down from the tree without any trouble.

In some ways she wished she could climb the tree right now. But she wouldn't dare, not when she was pregnant. So instead, she sat on a small stone bench, one that was rarely sat upon because it was known to attract "fallen acorns", and she closed her eyes, taking in the scenery of everything she loved about this place…and how very soon, she would have to leave it.

_But it's just as well,_ she reminded herself. _You have a home in Dublin, a life there. And as lovely as it was to sleep in your old bed and walk through this garden, it will be even better to return to your own home, your little flat for you and Tom, to see your friends there, to see his family, again. To go to that favorite pub, to—_

"Your mother said you were in the garden," came an all too familiar voice. Sybil's eyes flew open and she looked up at her father, surprised to see him standing there beside her, Isis at his feet. "And I wondered if I would find you here…and I see that I am right."

Sybil didn't return the smile he offered, and felt her heart harden at his words. _Yes, Papa, in your mind, you are always right._ "I needed some air; I find that fresh air helps in fighting any nausea," she explained, one hand moving rather protectively over her belly. She never dared to ask him what he thought of the pregnancy. And after their confrontation from yesterday, she didn't think she ever would.

Her father looked down at the bench on which she was sitting; it was large enough for two, but Sybil wasn't sure she was ready to have him sit next to her. He had done such a good job at avoiding Tom during the week, why couldn't he continue that now and avoid her? Or was it that only _he_ was allowed to avoid people? She didn't want to fight; after everything that had happened yesterday, her emotions were utterly exhausted.

_Tom had questions in his eyes when he found her in the hall with her father, but she didn't feel like answering them; besides, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that they had been speaking harsh words to one another. Instead, she insisted on dancing and trying to enjoy as much of the wedding reception as possible. Tom complied, and didn't try to ask her anything while they danced. A few hours later, she was in their room, sitting at her dresser and running a brush through her hair, while Tom was going through one of their suitcases, looking for some item. _

_ "Are you going to tell me what happened?"_

_ Sybil rolled her eyes and sighed, before putting the brush down and looking back at him in the mirror. "I told him."_

_ Tom's eyes widened at her words. "Everything?"_

_ Sybil shrugged her shoulders and picked her brush up once again. "Practically," she muttered. "I told him about this morning, about how you had found me crying, and the reason for my crying," her brushing was becoming a little harsher as she spoke. "I told him how it made me feel, to see the way he looked at Mary…and how much it hurt that he wasn't there in Ireland for our wedding…ow!" she glared at the offending hairbrush, even though it was her own fault for brushing so roughly._

_ Tom came up behind her and took the brush from her hand, before allowing his fingers to move over her scalp, giving it a gentle massage. She smiled up at him and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling. _

_ "Did he say anything?" he softly asked._

_ Sybil opened her eyes and gave a small sigh. "No…I mean, not really. I…I didn't really let him speak," she admitted, feeling a little guilty. Although she shouldn't, he kept telling herself. He was the problem, not her! As she had told her sisters a year ago, she was happy to remain friends with everyone!_

_ Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She was in her nightgown, but Tom hadn't changed yet, except for removing his jacket. She grabbed his arm as he moved towards the door. "If it's Papa, I don't want to see him!" she hissed. He gave her a look, which she knew was meant to shame her for behaving so childishly, but she ignored it and turned her attention back to the mirror, watching her husband open the door in its reflection._

_ "Oh, hello Tom, is Sybil still awake?"_

_ She turned at the sound of her mother's voice, her eyes wide with surprise. Tom glanced at her, and then opened the door a little wider, allowing her mother to enter the room. "Oh good; I was afraid you'd be asleep."_

_ Sybil wasn't sure how to respond, so she simply let her mother take her hands and help her up from her chair, before leading her over to the bed. "Tom…I know this is rather rude of me, especially at this hour, but…would you mind giving the two of us a moment to talk alone?"_

_ "Mama—" began to protest, but Tom was faster._

_ "Not at all, your La—sorry, I mean…Cora," he corrected, giving both of them a polite smile. Sybil tried to catch his eyes before he left, as if pleading for him not to go; she had no idea what her mother wanted to talk about, and even though her mother was trying (something she couldn't say for her father) she assumed that her mother had come to offer some sort of "peace offering" on her father's behalf, and quite frankly, she wanted none of it. If he wanted to offer a peace offering, then he could jolly well come and deliver it, himself! _

_ "Oh, Tom!" her mother called, just before he left. "I believe Robert is in the library…if you wish to speak with him."_

_ Sybil gaped at her mother, her eyes growing wider by the second. Was she serious? Send poor Tom down into the lion's den? _

_ Tom merely put on a polite smile, gave a nod of his head, and then without another glance, disappeared out the door, leaving her alone with her mother._

_ It turned out not to be a peace offering on behalf of her father, but an apology from her mother. She embraced Sybil and told her how sorry she was for not coming to her wedding, and how much she regretted it. It didn't take long for the tears to come, and soon both of them were crying and hugging and then laughing at themselves, before crying some more. Sybil then proceeded to tell her mother about the small, meager wedding, certainly tiny when compared to the grand ceremony and reception of Mary and Matthew's. Her mother began to sob at this, but Sybil reassured her it was alright, she preferred something small and simple. She then began to tell her mother everything about Ireland—the hospital where she worked, the new friends she had made, the flat where she and Tom made their home, his family—they talked for what felt like hours. Finally, they hugged and said their goodnights, and Sybil went to bed for the first time since returning to Downton, with a sense of peace._

_ But Tom didn't come back until much, much later. And when he did crawl into bed, Sybil swore she could smell…brandy?_

_ He seemed to be a rather…jolly…mood. And even though she had many questions as to where he had gone while she and her mother were talking, and did he really go to the library to speak with her father…he had a way for distracting her._

_And when morning came, despite the headache to which he grumbled, he still seemed to be in merry spirits. What on earth had happened? But there was no time to ask questions; Mary and Matthew were leaving early, and she decided to join her mother and sister in saying their goodbyes at the station. Besides, it would provide an excellent excuse for not having to see Papa at breakfast._

…Except he _had_ found her, here…at the place that was meant to be her sanctuary.

"I understand your mother came to speak with you last night…"

She sighed, and nodded her head. "Yes," she simply replied. She fought the urge to groan when he moved to sit on the bench next to her.

"I'm glad," he murmured, reaching over and stroking Isis' head. "I know she had some things she wanted to get off her chest."

Sybil bit her lip, trying hard to fight the temptation to throw a retort at him. Instead, she put on a forced smile and turned her attention to him. "She didn't tell you about our conversation?"

Her father looked confused. "No, of course not. It was a conversation between the two of you." Inwardly, Sybil was rolling her eyes. So now he was going to respect private conversations, when during the week, he was demanding to know what every smile or laugh between her and Tom was all about. "Besides, when I went to bed she was fast asleep."

"Yes, apparently you had a late night…?"

Her father looked at her with a little surprise, and then he began to chuckle, something which actually took Sybil by surprise. "Yes, I suppose we did…"

_We_. Was it possible? Had…had her father and Tom…?

"Did you drink?" she bluntly asked. That answer would be enough.

Her father chuckled a little more and nodded his head. "Yes, I think it's safe to say there was a little brandy shared."

So it WAS true! Tom and her father…had brandy together in the library? And Tom had come back alive? And this morning, he wasn't cursing or grumbling about anything negatively said…

Good God…was it possible that the two of them had truly been…civil?

She grimaced at the thought; naturally this would happen, when there were no witnesses to testify to it.

"You looked beautiful, by the way…"

Sybil's head snapped back to her father, her eyes wide and filled with confusion at his words. The compliment seemed to have come from nowhere!

"You always look beautiful," he went on, "but…" he paused as he went to remove something from of his inner jacket pocket…and Sybil stared in amazement as he produced the five photographs taken at her wedding. "I must confess…you took my breath away, here."

She looked down at the photos, her eyes beginning to sting from the feel of tears. "How…where…?"

"Your husband…Tom…he showed them to me, last night."

_Tom_. Her father was calling her husband…_Tom._

She looked at the pictures, as if she had never seen them before. The first one was just her, smiling at the camera in her wedding dress, clasping a bouquet of flowers that one of Tom's sisters had picked for her. The second picture showed the two of them together, both facing the camera and smiling, her arm resting atop his. The third was another one of the two of them together, now gazing into one another's eyes. The fourth was a picture with all of Tom's family, surrounding them, and in that one they were laughing, because the poor photographer was trying his hardest to keep everyone under control, when there were small children wanting to run about instead of sitting still. The final one was a picture with her sisters; Mary looking elegant and refined, Edith looking sweet and sophisticated, and her…sitting between them, smiling once again, but this time looking down at her lap, as she held her sister's clasped hands.

"They're all wonderful," her father whispered, holding each with great reverence. "But…I think this one is my favorite…"

Surely he meant the one with her sisters. But to Sybil's shock and dismay…he held up the one where it was her and Tom…looking at one another, not even noticing the world around them.

"I will treasure all of them, very much, but…it's because you look so…happy. And content. And…and treasured."

She looked up at her father, hearing the emotion in his voice, and seeing the tears that brimmed in his eyes, as well.

"I…I thought you would like the one with Mary and Edith best," she murmured, before moving her hand to his arm.

He nodded his head, while taking a deep breath. "Yes…it is very lovely, and I have always loved pictures of the three of you," he admitted. "But…I must confess, it is in fact my…least favorite, if I must call it that." Sybil looked up at him, wondering what he meant. "I say that because…it's a picture of you with your family…but not _all_ of your family is present."

She bit her lip, and squeezed her father's arm. Her father reached over with his other hand and covered hers. "I hope you can one day forgive me, Sybil; for my pig-headedness," he sighed, lifting her hand from his arm to his lips and giving it a tender kiss. Sybil felt a few tears trickle down her cheek, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Was this truly happening? Was he truly telling her…what she had hoped, what she had longed for, ever since she stepped foot, back on the ground of her childhood home?

"I've spoken to your husband," he began, after taking a few, deep, calming breaths. "And now I want to tell you." She looked up at him, unsure what he was going to say, but instead of dread, she felt hope fill her heart. "I want you to come back to Downton, to have the baby."

Sybil's eyes widened. "But, Papa—"

"I know, I know, you have probably already made arrangements, and perhaps Tom's mother was planning on assisting. If she wishes to be there, and I can understand if she does, then by all means, we will send for her. But I want you here, Sybil…with doctors that I know and trust, because God help me, I will be worried sick enough as it is."

She wanted to tell her father that she would be in a safe and distinguished Dublin hospital, not some backwoods cabin. Yet she kept her mouth closed, enjoying his loving concern.

"And then, I would like for all three of you to come back here for Christmas; or at the very least, for New Years. But I would like to have my grandson or granddaughter here, for his or her first holiday," he looked off into the distance, a wistful smile on his face. "Perhaps then we can take a _proper_ family picture?"

Sybil's tears were flowing rapidly now, but she laughed and hugged her father's arm. "What about…what about you?" she murmured. "Will…will you and Mama come to see us in Dublin?"

Her father's face fell a bit, but he squeezed her hand to reassure her. "When things are safer," he promised. "Right now, I doubt it's a good idea for an English Earl to make a visit. But…when things have calmed down, then yes, your mother and I will come."

"Oh Papa!" she gasped, throwing her arms around her father's neck and hugging him so tightly, she heard him gasping. But the gasping was soon replaced by laughter, and she let her tears flow happily as she felt his arms move around her. "Thank you," Sybil repeated over and over, her arms never loosening. "Thank you, thank you, so much, thank you!"

She thought she heard her father sniffle, but he quickly brushed his eyes clean before she could see. It didn't matter; she could read his emotions on his face. "There's one more thing I should tell you," he sighed, pulling away enough until he was looking into her eyes. "Yesterday, when you asked me what it was I had said, after you stepped on my foot in the ballroom?"

Sybil was surprised he had remembered. "Yes?"

"I had muttered…'you always insist on leading, don't you?'"

She stared at him for a moment, and then a giggle burst from her throat and soon her father was laughing with her. They were hugging again, and Sybil sat amazed, thinking about how so many things had happened this week. In some ways, she was disappointed that this peace had come so late in her and Tom's visit, but she brushed that feeling aside. The point was that it indeed had come…and Downton, could once more, be a place to call home.

* * *

Tom watched his wife and father-in-law embraced from a distance. He was happy for Sybil; he was happy for them both. While he wouldn't go out and say that Robert (he doubted he would ever be comfortable enough to call him that) and he were the "best of friends", he did feel that a truce had been made, and that he was no longer the enemy.

"Oh thank goodness," he heard his mother-in-law say, just over his shoulder. Cora turned and smiled at him, and Tom smiled back. "I was afraid it would never happen!" She looked at him in utter amazement. "What did you say to him last night?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Hardly anything, really. I think this is all their own doing, to be honest," he paused, and then added, "with perhaps a little help from some photographs."

Cora nodded her head. "Yes, I've heard about these photographs…" she murmured. "Robert showed me the one you gave him last night, and it is absolutely stunning…but I want to see those others, and…as much as I'd hate to interrupt this happy scene, I can't help it, I am feeling rather greedy for them!"

Tom laughed and was soon joined by his mother-in-law. As he gazed across the garden at his wife, she turned her head, as it rested atop her father's shoulder and he saw her smile back at him. He silently mouthed, "I love you", to which she grinned through her tears, before mouthing the words back.

When Tom had married her, he wanted to give her the moon. He wanted to give her everything under the sun and stars and beyond. But he knew that wasn't going to be possible, so instead, he gave her the only thing he knew he could give her, which was his love. But also tried to give her hope; hope that the future would be better, and that the world would change with it. He had made so many promises to her, during his years of pursuing her; promises that a love like theirs, one that transcended class boundaries, was possible and could work, and that while she would have to make a choice to leave the life she had known, it wouldn't be forever. He had promised her that her family would one day come around…and he knew that he would be thanking God each and every night hereafter, for making that possible. Not for his sake, but for hers, as well as that of their child, and God willing, all the children that would come after.

* * *

_Five years later…_

"Grandpa! Grandpa!"

Robert put down his paper and looked up when he heard the child's cry. A little girl came bursting into the library, tears streaming down her face, a nasty bruise purpling on her face and an even nastier cut down upon her knee.

"What happened?" he gasped, bending down to scoop up the child, who wasted little time before launching herself into her grandfather's arms.

"I fell," she sobbed, her accent an interesting mix of Irish and English. "I was…I was trying to climb Mummy's tree—"

"Katie?" Tom burst into the library, followed closely by Sybil, who couldn't move as fast as she would like, due to being nine months pregnant with their second child. "Katie, I heard you scream? What happened?"

Robert smiled and stood up, still holding his granddaughter close as she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. "It's alright; she had a tumble, that's all."

"Oh Katie," Sybil sighed, before sitting in the closest chair to rest her feet. "You were climbing that tree again, weren't you?"

Katie sniffled. "I'm sorry, mummy…"

Robert smiled and gave the little girl a kiss on the cheek. "Well, let this be a lesson; next time, wait until someone like your Da or myself is present, before you attempt to climb again. Although, I have no doubt by the time you're ten, you'll be swinging from branches like a monkey."

"Oh Papa, don't encourage her," Sybil warned, although anyone could tell her warning had a teasing edge.

"You know, your mummy would sometimes fall out of trees," he whispered into the child's ear. "And I discovered that the best medicine is a cup of hot chocolate."

The little girl's eyes widened and all of her tears seemed to magically vanish. Sybil stood and joined her husband in the doorway of the library. They smiled as they watched their daughter being carried in the arms of her grandfather down to the kitchens for that magical cup of chocolate.

"Once upon a time, I would never have thought such an image was impossible," Sybil whispered with wonder, smiling and leaning her head against her husband's shoulder.

Tom chuckled and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his other hand falling across her belly. "Looks as though the future has brought many changes," he murmured, giving her forehead a kiss.

Sybil smiled before turning her face to greet his lips. "But some things, it seems, remain the same."

**~The End~**

* * *

_Yep, so I gave Tom and Sybil a daughter; originally I envisioned them with a little girl...but I must confess, I'm now starting to envision a boy, but for the sake of this story, it made more sense for the child to be a girl. Doesn't matter in the end, because we all know Tom and Sybil are gonna love that baby to pieces!_


End file.
